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From a Photograph by Barraud, June, iSgi 



POEMS 



JEAN INGELOW 



IN TWO VOLUMES 
Vol. I. 



^ 



BOSTON 

ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1896 



«1t 



B> 



Copyrii^kt, ISSl, 1SS5, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



liyiiiok's CoMPLritt Edition, 



John Wilson and Son, CAMMRincE, U.S.A. 



DEDICA TION 

TO 

GEORGE KILGOUR INGELOW 

YOUR LOVING SISTER 

OFFERS YOU THESE POEMS, PARTLY AS 

AN EXPRESSION OF HER AFFECTION, PARTLY FOR THE 

PLEASURE OF CONNECTING HER EFFORTS 

WITH YOUR NAME 

Kensington : June, 1863 



CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 



Page 

Divided 9 

HoNOKS. — Part I IG 

Honors. — Part II 26 

Requiescat in Pace .... 41 

Supper at the Mill 40 

Scholar and Carpenter 60 

The Star's Monument 76 

A Dead Year 105 

Eeflections Ill 

The Letter L 115 

The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571) 146 

Afternoon at a Parsonage 153 

Songs of Seven 165 

A Cottage in a Chine 176 

Persephone 181 

A Sea Song 186 

Brothers, and a Sermon 188 

A Wedding Song 217 

The Four Bridges 219 

A Mother shoaving the Portrait of her Child . . . 248 

Strife and Peace 254 

The Dreams that came true 259 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page 

Songs on the Voices of Birds. 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman 281 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 283 

Sand Martins 284 

A Poet in his Youth and the Cuckoo-Bird . . . 287 

A Raven in a White Chine 294 

The Warbling of Blackbirds 296 

Sea-Mews in Winter-Time 297 

Laurance 300 

Songs of the Night Watches. 

Introductory. — Evening 341 

The First Watch. — Tired 342 

The Middle Watch 349 

The Morning Watch 354 

Concluding. — Early Pawn 356 

Contrasted Songs. 

Sailing beyond Seas 361 - 

Remonstrance 363 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection . . 364 

Song of Margaret 371 

Song of the going away . . 372 

A Lily and a Lute 374 

Gladys and her Island 385 

Songs with Preludes. 

Wedlock 419 

Regret 423 

Lamentation 425 

Dominion 428 

Friendship 431 

Winstanley 435 



POEMS. 



DIVIDED. 
I. 



a.^ 



N empty sky, a world of licatticr. 
^^^^ Purple of foxglove, yellow of bioom 
We two araong them wjidiug togethei. 
Shaking out honey, treading perfume. 

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, 
Crowdd of grasshoppers skip at our tWt, 

Crowds of larks at their matins hang over. 
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. 

Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, 
Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, 

'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, 
Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. 

We two walk till the purple dieth 

And short dry grass under toot is brown. 

But one little streak at a distance lieth 
Green like a ribbon to prank the down. 



10 DIVIDED. 



Over tlie grass we stepped unto it, 

And God He know*^th how blithe we were I 

Never a voice to bid us eschew it : 

Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair ! 

Hey the green ribbon ! we kneeled beside it, 
"We parted the grasses dewy and sheen ; 

Drop over drop there filtered and slided 
A tiny bright beck that trickled between. 

Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sang to us, 
Light was our talk as of faery bells — 

Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us 
Down in their fortunate parallels. 

Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, 

We lapped the grass on that youngling spring ; 

Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, 
And said, " Let us follow it westering." 



III. 

A dappled sky, a world of meadows. 
Circling above us the black rooks fly 

Forward, backward ; lo, their dark shadows 
Flit on the blossoming tapestry — 



DJ VIBEJJ. 11 

Flit on the beck, for her long grass parteth 

As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back ; 

And, lo, the sun like a lover darteth 

His flatterhig smile on her wayward track. 

Sing on ! we sing in the glorious weather 

Till one steps over the tiny strand. 
So narrow, in sooth, that still together 

On either brink we go hand in hand. 

The beck grows wider, the hands must sever. 

On either margin, our songs all done. 
We move apart, while she singeth ever. 

Taking the course of the stooping sun. 

He prays, " Come over" — I may not follow ; 

I cry, " Return " — but he cannot come : 
We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow ; 



IV. 



A breathing sigh, a sigh for answer, 
A little talking of outward things 

The careless beck is a merry dancer. 
Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. 



12 DIVIDED. 

A little pain when the beck grows wider ; 

" Cross to me now — for her wavelets swell " 
" I may not cross," — and the voice beside hei 

Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. 

No backward path ; ah ! no returning ; 

No second crossing that ripple's flow : 
" Come to me now, for the west is burning ; 

Come ere it darkens ; " — " Ah, no ! ah, no ! " 

Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching — 
The beck grows wider and swift and deep : 

Passionate words as of one beseeching — 

The loud beck drowns them ; we walk, and weep. 



V. 



A yellow moon in splendor drooping, 
A tired queen with her state oppressed. 

Low by rushes and swordgrass stooping, 
Lies she soft on the w;ives at rest. 

The desert heavens have felt her sadness ; 

Her earth will weep her some dewy tears 
The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, 

And goeth stilly as soul that fears. 



DIVIDED. 13 

We two walk on in our grassy places 

On either marge of" the moonlit flood. 
With the moon's own sadness in our faces, 

Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. 



VI. 



A shady freslmess, chafers whirring, 

A little piping of leaf-hid birds ; 
A flutter of -ndiigs, a fitful stirring, 

A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. 

Bare grassy slopes, where kids are tethered 
Roimd valleys like nests all ferny-lined ; 

Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered. 
Swell high in their freckled robes behind. 

A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver. 

When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide ; 

A flashing edge for the milk-white river. 
The beck, a river — with still sleek tide. 

Broad and white, and polished as silver. 
On she goes under fruit-laden trees ; 

Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, 
And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. 



14 DIVIDED. 

Glitters the dew and shines the river, 
Up comes the lily and dries her bell ; 

But two are walking apart forever, 

And wave their hands for a mute farewell. 



vn. 

A braver swell, a swifter sliding ; 

The i-iver haste th, her banks recede: 
Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding 

Bear down the lily and drown the reed. 

Stately prows are rising and bowing 
(Shouts of mariners wiimow the air), 

And level sands for banks endowing 

The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. 

While, O my heart ! as white sails shiver, 

AjkI crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide. 

How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, 
That moving speck on the far-off side ! 

Farther, farther — I see it — know it — 

Bly eyes brim over, it melts away : 
Only my heart to my heart shall show it 

As I walk desolate day by day. 



DIVIDED. 15 



And yet I know past all doubting, truly — 
A knowledge greater than grief can dim — 

F know, ay he loved, he will love me duly — 
Yea better — e'en better than I love him. 

And as I walk by the vast calm river. 

The awful river so dread to see, 
I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever 

Ai'e bridged by his thoughts that cross to me. 




HONORS. — PART I. 

(A Scholar is musing on his want of success.) 

^0 strive — and fail. Yes, I did strive and fail ; 
I set mine eyes upon a certain night 
To find a certain star — and could not hail 
With them its deep-set light. 

Fool that I was ! I will rehearse my fault : 
I, wingless, thought myself on high to lift 
Among the winged — T set these feet that halt 
To run against the swift. 

And yet this man, that loved me so, can write — 

That loves me, T would say, can let me see ; 
()t fain would have ine think he counts but light 
These Honors lost to me. 

(The letter of his frlewl.) 
"■ What are they ? that old house of yours wliich ^ave 

Such welcome oft to me, the sunbeams fall 
Yet, down the squares of blue and white which pave 
Tts hospitable hall. 



HONORS. X7 

" A brave old house ! a garden full of bees. 

Large dropping poppies, and Queen hollyhocks. 
With butterllies for crowns — tree peonies 
And pinks and goldilocks. 

" Go, when the shadow of your house is long 

TJpon the gai-den — when some new-waked biid. 
Pecking and fluttering, chirps a sudden song. 
And not a leaf is stirred ; 

" But every one drops dew from cither edge 

Upon its fellow, while an amber ray 
Slants up among the ti-ee-tops like a wedge 
Of liquid gold — to play 

" Over and under them, and so to fall 

Upon that lane of water lying below — 
That piece of sky let in, that you do call 
A pond, but which I know 

'' To be a deep and wondrous world ; for 1 

Have seen the trees within it — marvellous thu)ga 
So thick no bird betwixt their leaves could fly 
But she would smite her wiiig^^ ; — 

" Go there, I say ; stand at the water's brink. 
And shoals of spotted barbel you shall see 
Basking between the shadows — look, and thiidc 
' This beauty is for me ; 



18 HONORS. 

" * For me this freshness in the morning hours, 

For me the water's clear tranquillity ; 
For me the soft descent of chestnut flowers ; 
The cushat's cry for me. 

" ' The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat 

The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill ; 

The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet 

And wade and diink their fill.' 

" Then saunter down that terrace whence the sea 
All fair with wing-like sails you may discern ; 
Be glad, and say * This beauty is for me — 
A thing to love and learn. 

" * For me the bounding in of tides ; for me 

The laying bare of sands when they retreat; 
Tlie purple flush of calms, the sparkling glee 
Wlien waves and sunshine meet.* 

" So, after gazing, homeward turn, and mount 

To that long chamber in the roof; there tell 
Your heart th(; laid-up lore it holds to count 
And pi-izc ;ui(i ponder well. 

" The lookings onward of the race before 

It had a past to make it look behind ; 
Its reverent wonder, and its doubting sore, 
Its adoi'atinii l>!iii<l. 



HONORS. 19 

"The lliiinder of its war-songs, and tlie glow 

Of chants to freedom by the old world sung ; 
The sweet love cadences that long ago 

Dropped from the old-world tongue. 

" And then this new-world lore that takes account 

Of tangled star-dust ; maps the triple whirl 
Of blue and red and argent worlds that mount 
And greet the Irish Earl ; 

" Oi float across the tube that Herschki. swayw, 
Like pale-rose chaplets, or like sapphii-e mist ; 
Or hang or droop along the heavenly ways. 
Like scarves of amethyst. 

" O strange it is and wide the new-Avorld lore, 

For next it treateth of our native dust ! 
Must dig out buried monsters, and explore 
The green earth's fruitful crust ; 

" Must write the story of her seething youth — 

How lizai'ds paddled in her lukewarm seas ; 
Must show the cones she ripened, and forsooth 
Count seasons on her trees ; 

" Must know her weight, and pry into her age. 

Count her old beach lines by their tidal swell ; 
Hei sunken mountains name, her craters gauge, 
Her cold volcanoes tell ; 



20 HONORS. 

" And treat her as a ball, that one might pass 
From tliis hand to the other — such a ball 
As he could measure with a blade of grass. 
And say it was but small ! 

■' Honors ! O friend, I pray you bear with me : 
The grass hath time to grow in meadow lands, 
And leisurely the opal murmuring sea 
IJreaks on her yellow sands ; 

** And leisurely the ring-dove on her nest 

Broods till her tender chick will peck the shell 
And leisurely down fall from ferny crest 
The dew-drops on the well ; 

" And leisurely your life and spirit grew. 

With yet the time to grow and ripen free : 
No judgment past withdraws that boon from you. 
Nor granteth it to me. 

" Still nuist 1 plod, and still in cities moil ; 

From precious leisure, learned leisure far, 
Dull my best self with handling common soil ; 
Yet mine those honors are. 

" Mine they are called ; they are a name which means, 

' This man had steady pulses, tranquil nerves ; 
Here, as in other fields, the most he gleans 
Who works and never swerves. 



HONORS. 21 

'•We measure not his mind ; we cannot tell 
What lieth under, over, or beside 
The test we put him to ; he doth excel, 
We know, where he is tried ; 

' But, if he boast some farther excellence — 

Mind to create as well as to attain ; 

To sway his peers by golden eloquence. 

As wind doth shift a fane ; 

***To sini; among the po<ts — we are nought: 
We cannot drop a line into that sea 
And read its fathoms oif, nor gauge a thought. 
Nor map a simile. 

" ' It may be of all voices sublunar 

The only one he echoes we did try ; 

We may have come upon the only star 

That twinkles in his sky.' 

"And so it was witli me." 

O false my friend ! 
False, false, a random charge, a blame undue ; 
Wrest not fair reasoning to a crooked end ; 
False, false, as you are true ! 

But I read on : "And so it was with me ; 

Your golden constellations lying apart 
They neitiier hailed nor greeted heartily, 
Nor noted on their chait. 



22 HONORS. 

" Ajid jet to you and not to me belong 

Those finer instincts that, like second sight 
And hearing, catch creation's undersong, 
And see by inner light. 

" You are a well, whereon I, gazing, see 

Reflections of the upper heavens — a well 
From whence come deep, deep echoes up to me - 
Some underwave's low swell. 

" I camiot soar into the heights you show. 

Nor dive among the deeps that you reveal ; 
But it is much that high things ake to know, 
That deep things ark to feel. 

" 'T is yours, not mine, to pluck out of your breast 
Some human truth, whose woi-kings recondite 
Were unattired in words, and manifest 
And hold it forth to light 

" And cry, ' Behold this thing that I have found.' 
And though they knew not of it till that day, 
Nor should have done with no man to expound 
Its meaning, yet they say, 

'* ' We do accept it : lower than the shoals 
We skim, this diver went, nor did create, 
But find it for us deeper in our souls 
Than we can penetrate.' 



HOIVORS. 23 

■* You were to me the world's interpreter, 

The man that taught me Natui-e's unknown tongue, 
And to the notes of her wild dulcimer 
First set sweet words, and sung. 

" And what am I to you ? A steady hand 
To hold, a steadfest heart to trust withal ; 
Merely a man that loves you, and will stand 
lly you, whate'er befall. 

" But need we praise his tendance tutelar 

Who feeds a flame that warms him ? Yet 't is true 
I love you for the sake of what you are, 
And not of what you do: — 

'*As heaven's high twins, whereof in Tyrian blue 
The one revolveth : through his course immense 
Might love his fellow of the damask hue, 
For like, and difference. 

" For different pathways evermore decreed 
To intersect, but not to interfere ; 
p^ir common goal, two aspects, and one speed, 
One centre and one year ; 

" For deep affmities, for drawings strong, 

That by their nature each must needs exert ; 
For loved alliance, and for imion long. 
That stands before desert. 



24 HONORS. 

** And yet desert makes brighter not the less, 
For nearest his own star he shall not fail 
To think those rays unmatched for nobleness, 
That distance counts but pale. 

" Be pale afar, since still to me you shine, 

And must while Nature's eldest law shall hold ; " — 
Ah, there's the thought which makes his random line 
Dear as retined gold ! 

Then shall I drink tliis draft of oxymel, 

Part sweet, part sharp ? Myself o'erprized to know 
Is sharp ; the cause is sweet, and truth to tell 
Few would that cause forego, 

Wliich is, that this of all the men on earth 

Doth love me well enough to count me great — 
To think my soul and his of equal girth — 

liberal estimate ! 

And yet it is so ; he is boimd to me. 

For human love makes aliens near of kin ; 
By it I ri^e, there is equality : 

1 rise to thee, my twin. 

** Take courage " — courage ! ay, my purple peer 
I will take courage ; for thy Tyrian rays 
Refresh me to the heart, and strangely dear 
And healing is thy praise. 



HONORS. 



25 



" Take couraoje," quoth he, " and respect the mind 

Your Maker gave, for good your fate fulfil ; 
The fate round many hearts your own to wiud." 
Twin soul, I wUl ! I will ! 




HONORS. — PART II. 

( TliB Answer.) 

jS one who, journeying, checks the rein m haste 
Because a chasm doth yawn across his way 
Too wide for leaping, and too steeply faced 
For climber to essay — 

As such an one, being brought to sudden stand, 

Doubts all his foi-egone path if 't were tlie true, 
Ajid turns tc this and then to tlie other hand 
As knowing not what to do, — 

So I, being checked, am with my path at strife 

Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end. 
False path ! it cost me priceless years of life, 
My well-beloved friend. 

There fell a flute when Ganymede went up — 

The flute that he was wont to play upon : 

It dropped beside the jonquU's milk-white cup, 

And freckled cowslips wjm — 



HONORS. 27 

Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute. 

He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing, 
Aspiring, panting — aye, it dropped — the flute 
Erewliile a cherished thing. 

Among the delicate grasses and the bells 

Of crocuses that spotted a rill side, 
I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells 
To my young lips replied. 

I played thereon, and its response was sweet ; 

But lo, they took from me that solacing reed. 
" shame ! " they said ; " such music is not u>eel ; 
Go up like Ganymede. 

" Go up. despise these humble gi'assy things, 
Sit on the golden edge of youder cloud." 
Alas ! though ne'er for me those eagle wiiigs 
Stooped from their eyry proud. 

My flute ! and flung away its echoes sleep ; 
But as ibr me, my life-pulse beateth low ; 
And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deej) 
Under the drifting snow, 

Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand 

Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise, 
And left to rot betwixt the sea and land. 
My heljiless spirit lies. 



28 HONORS. 

Rueing, I think foi- what then was I made ; 

What end appointed for — what use designed ? 
Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed — 
Unveil these eyes gone blind. 

My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day 

Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled, 
So thick, one standing on their brink might say, 
Lo, here doth end the world. 

A white abyss beneath, and nought beside ; 

Yet, hark ! a cropping sound not ten feet down : 
Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied 
Through rock-paths cleft and brown. 

And here and there green tufts of grass peered through, 

Salt lavender, and sea thrift ; then behold 
The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view 
A beast of giant mould. 

She seemed a great sea-monster lying content 

With all her cubs about her : but deep — deei> — ■ 
The subtle mist went floating ; its descent 
Showed the world's end was steep. 

It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo, 

The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood 
Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow 
Sat vvatching for their food. 



HONORS. 29 

Then ouce again it sank, its day was done : 
Part rolled aAvay, part vanished utterly, 
And glimmering softly under the white sun, 
Behold ! a great white sea. 

that the mist which veileth my To-come 

Would so dissolve and yield imlo mine eyes 
A worthy path ! I 'd count not wearisome 
Long toil, nor enterprise, 

But strain to reach it ; ay, with wrestlings stouf 

And hopes that even in the dark will grow 
(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out), 
And ploddings wary and slow. 

Is tliere such path already made to fit 

The measuie of my foot? It shall atone 
For much, if I at length may light on it 
And know it for mine own. 

liut is there none? why, then, 't is more than wull : 

Ajid glad at heart myself will hew one out, 
Let me be only sure ; for, sooth to tell, 
'I'he sorest dole is doubt — 

Doubt, a I)lank twilight of the heart, whicli mars 

All sweetest colors in its dimness same ; 
A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stars 
Beholdinc, we misname. 



30 HONORS. 

A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes 

Those images that on its breast reposed ; 
A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks 
Tlie motto it disclosed. 

doubt ! O doubt ! I know my destiny ; 

I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast ; 

1 cannot loose, but I will sing to thee, 

And flatter thee to rest. 

There is no certainty, " my bosom's guest," 

No proving for the things whereof ye wot ; 
For, like the dead to sight unmanifest, 
They are, and they are not. 

But surely as they are, for God is truth, 

And as they are not, for we saw them die, 
So surely from the heaven drops light for youth. 
If youth will walk thereby. 

And can I see this light ? It may be so ; 

" But see it thus and thus," my fathers said. 
The living do not rule this world ; ah no ! 
It is the dead, the dead. 

Shall I be slave to every noble soul, 

Study the dead, and to their spirits bend ; 
Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll, 
And make self-nile my end ? 



HONORS. 31 

Thought from unthout — O shall I take on ti-ust, 

And life from others modelled steal or ^vin ; 
Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust 
]My true life from within ? 

(). let me be myself! But where, O where, 
Under this heap of precedent, this mound 
Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare, 
Shall the Myself be found ? 

thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred 

None of their wisdom, but their folly came 
Therewith ; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard 
For thee to quit the same. 

With glosses they obscured God's natural truth, 

And witli tradition tarnished His revealed ; 
With vain protections they endangered youth, 
With layings bare they sealed. 

What aileth thee, myself? Alas ! thy hands 
Are tied with old opinions — heir and son, 
Tliou hast inherited thy father's lands 
iVnd all his debts thiTeoii. 

O that some power would give me Adam's eyesi 

O for the straight simplicity of Eve ! 
For I see nought, or grow, poor fool, too wise 
With seeing to believe. 



32 HONORS. 

Exemplars may be heaped until they hide 

The rules that they were made to render plain i 
Love may be watclied,her nature to decide, 
Until love's self doth wane. 



Ah me ! and when forgotten and foregone 
We leave the learning of departed days, 
And cease the generations past to con, 
Their wisdom and their ways, — 

When fain to learn we lean into the dark, 
And grope to feel the floor of the abyss, 
Or find the secret boundary lines which mark 
Where soul and matter kiss — 

Fair world ! these puzzled souls of ours grow weak 
With beating their bruised wings against the rim 
That bounds their utmost flying, when they seek 
The distant and the dim. 

We pant, we strain like birds against their wires ; 
Are sick to reach the vast and the beyond ; — 
And what avails, if still to our desires 
Those far-off gulfs respond ? 

Contentment comes not therefore ; still there lies 

An outer distance when the first is hailed. 
And still forever yawns before our eyes 
An UTMOST — that is veiled. 



HONORS. 

Searching those edges of the universe, 

We leave the central fields a fallow part ; 

To feed the eye more precious things amerce, 

And starve the darkened heart. 

Then all goes wrong: the old foundations rock; 
One scorns at him of old who gazed unshod ; 
One striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock 
Shall move the seat of God. 

A little way, a very little way 

(Life is so short), they dig into the rind, 
And they are very son-y, so they say, — 
Sorry for what they find. 

But truth is sacred — ay, and must be told : 

There is a story long beloved of man ; 
"We must forego it, for it will not hold — 
Nature had no such plan. 

And then, if " God hath said it," some should cry, 

We have the story from the fountain-head : 
Why, then, what better than the old reply. 
The first " Yea, hath God said ? " 

The garden, the garden, must it go. 

Source of our hope and our most dear regret ? 
The ancient story, must it no more show 
How man may win it yet ? 



34 HONORS. 

Ai.d all upon the Titan child's decree, 

The baby science, born but yesterday, 
That in its rash unlearned infancy 

With shells and stones at play, 

Ami delving in the outworks of this world, 

And little crevices that it could reach, 
Discovered certain bones laid up, and furled 
Under an ancient beach, 

And other waifs tliat lay to its young mind 

Some fathoms lower than they ought to lie. 
By gain whei-eof it could not fail to find 
IMuch proof of ancientry, 

Hints at a Pedigree withdrawn and vast, 

Terrible deeps, and old obscurities, 
Or soulless origin, and twilight passed 
In the primeval seas, 

\Vhereof it tells, as thinking it hath been 
Of truth not meant for man inheritor ; 
A.S if this knowledge Heaven had ne'er foreseen 
And not provided for! 

Knowledge ordained to live ! altliough the fate 

Of much that went before it was — to die, 
'\nd be called ignorance by such as wait 
Till the next drii't comes by. 



HONORS. 

marvellous credulity of man ! 

If God indeed kept secret, couldst thou know 
Or follow up the mighty Artisan 
Unless He willed it so ? 

And canst thou of the Maker think in sooth 

That of the JMade He shall be found at fault, 
A nd dream of wresting from Him hidden truth 
By force or by assault? 

1 ut if He keeps not secret — if thine eyes 

He openeth to His wondrous work of late — 
Think how in soberness tiiy wisdom lies, 
And have the grace to wait. 

Wait, nor against the half-learned lesson tret, 

Nor chide at old belief as if it erred, 
Because thou canst not reconcile as yet 
The Worker and the word. 

Either the Worker did in ancient days 

Give us the word, His tale of love and might ; 
(And if in truth He gave it us, who says 
He did not give it right ?) 

Or else He gave it not, and then indeed 

We know not if iik is — by whom our years 
Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead, 
And the unfathered spheres. 



36 HONORS. 

We sit unowned upon our burial sod 

And know not whence we come or whose we be, 
Comfoi-tless mourners for the mount of God, 
The I'ocks of Calvary : 

Berei't of heaven, and of the long-loved page 

Wrought us by some who thought with death to cono 
Despairing comforters, from age to age 
Sowing the seeds of hope : 

Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us 

Out of the slough where passed our unknown youth 
"Benelicent liars, who have gifted us 
With sacred love of truth ! 

F'arewell to them : yet pause ere thou unmoor 

And set thine ark adrift on unknown seas; 
How wei't thou bettered so, or more secure 
Thou, and thy destinies ? 

And if thou searchest, and art made to fear 
Facing of unread riddles dark and hard. 
And mastering not their majesty austere. 
Their meaning locked and barred: 

How would it make tlie weight and wouder less, 

If, lifted from immortal shoulders down, 
The worlds Avere cast on seas of emptiness 
Tn realms; without a crown, 



HONORS. 37 

And (if there were no God) were left to rue 

Dominion of the air and of the fire? 
Tlieii if there be a God, " Let God be true, 
And every man a liar." 

But as for me, I do not speak as one 

That is exempt : I am with life at feud : 
My heart reproacheth me, as there were none 
Of so small gratitude. 

Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine. 

And still thy yeaniing and resolve thy doubt r 
That which I know, and that which I divine, 
Alas ! have left thee out. 

I have aspired to know the might of God, 
As if the story of His love was furled, 
Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod 
Of this redeemed world : — 

Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep, 

To gro[)e tor that abyss whence evil grew, 
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep, 
Hungry and desolate flew ; 

As if their legions did not one day crowd 

The death-pangs of the Conquering Good to see ! 
As if a sacred head had never bowed 
In death for mar — for me ; 



38 HONORS. 

Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons 

Of men, from thraldom with the nether kings 
In that dark country where those evil ones 
Trail their unhallowed wings. 

And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee, 
And didst Thou take to heaven a human brow r 
Dost plead with man's voice by the marvellous sea ? 
Art Thou bis kinsman now ? 

O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough ! 

man, with eyes majestic after death, 
Whose feet have tolled along our pathways rough, 
Whose lips drawn human breath ! 

By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 
By that one nature which doth hold us kin. 
By that high heaven where, sinless. Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in. 

By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall, 

By long foreknowledge of the deadly tree. 
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 
I pray Thee visit me. 

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, 

Die ere the guest adored she entertain — 

Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day 

Should miss Thy heavenly reign. 



HONORS. 39 

Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night 

Thy wiuiderers strayed upon the pathhiss wold. 
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for liglit, 
And cannot tiud their fold. 

Ajid deign, Watcher, with the sleepless brow, 

Patlietic in its yearning — deign reply : 

Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou 

Wouldat take from such as If 

Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust? 

Are there no thorns that compass it about ? 
Nor any stones that Thou Wilt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out ? 

O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 
It were a cure for doubt, regi-et, delay — 
Let my lost pathway go — what aileth me ? — 
There is a better way. 

What though unmarked the happy workman toil, 

And break unthanked of man the stubborn clod ? 
It is enough, for sacred is the soil, 
Dear are the hills of God. 

Far better in its place the lowliest bird 

Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song. 
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing His glory wrong. 



40 HONORS. 

Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee, 

Thou dost all earthly good by much excel ; 
Thou and God's blessing are enough for me: 
My work, my work — farewell ! 




REQUIESCAT IN PACE 




MY heart is sick awishing and awaiting : 
^^ The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he 
went his way ; 
And 1 looked on for his coining, as a prisoner through the 
grating 
Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening 
day. 

On the wild purple moimtaius, all alone with no other, 
Tiie strong terrible mountains he longed, he longed 
to be; 
And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss 
his mother, 
And till I said, "Adieu, sweet Sir," he quite forgot me. 

Ue wrote of their white rtiiment, the ghostly capes that 
screen them, 
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents 
and scars. 
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atwet'u 
them, 
And fields, where grow God's gentian bells, and His 
crocus stars. 



42 RE QUI ESC AT IN PACE. 

He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, lliat drop on tliein like 
fleeces, 
Aud make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses 
hoar ; 
Or come sailing up the valleys, and get WTecked and go 
to pieces, 
Like sloops against their cruel strength : then he wi-ote. 
no more. 

O the silence that came next, the patience and long 
aching ! 
They never said so much as " He was a dear loved 
son ; " 
Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness 
breaking : 
"Ah ! wherefore did he leave us so — this, our only one." 

Tliey sat within, as waiting, until the neighbors prayed 
them. 
At Cromer, by the sea-coast, 't were peace and change 
to be ; 
And to Cromer, in their patience, or tliat urgency aflTi-aj^ed 
them. 
Or because the tidings taiTied, they came, and took 
me. 

Tt was three months and over since the dear lad had 
started : 
On tlie green downs at Cromer 1 sat to see the view ; 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 43 

On an open space of herbage, where the ling aud fern 
had parted, 
Betwixt the tall white lighthouse towers, the old and 
tlie new. 

Below me lay the wide sea, the scarlet sun was stoop- 
ing* 
And he dyed the waste water, as with a scarlet 
dye; 
And he dyed the lighthouse towers; every bird with white 
wing swooping 
Took his colors, and the cliffs did, and the yawning sky. 

Over grass cume that strange flush, and over ling and 
heather, 
Over flocks of sheep and lambs, and over Cromer 
town ; 
And each filmy cloudlet crossing drifted like a scarlet 
feather 
Tom from the folded wings of clouds, while he settled 
down. 

When I looked, I dared not sigh: — In the light of God's 
splendor. 
With His daily blue and gold, who am I ? what am I ? 
But that passion and outpouring seemed an awful sign 
and tender, 
Like the blood of the Redeemer, shown on earth and 
sky. 



44 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

for comfort, O the waste of a long doubt and trouble ! 
On that sultry August eve trouble had made me meek ; 

1 was tired of my sorrow — O so faint, for it was double 

In the weight of its oppression, that I could uol 
speak ! 

And a little comfort grew, while the dimmed eyes were 
feeding. 
And the dull ears with murmur of water satisfied ; 
But a dream came slowly nigh me, all ray thoughts and 
• fancy leading 
Across the boimds of waking life to the other side. 

And I dreamt that I looked out, to the waste waters 
turning, 
And saw the flakes of scarlet from wave to wave 
tossed on ; 
And the scarlet mix with azure, where a heap of gold 
lay burning 
On the clear remote sea reaches ; for the sun was 
gone. 

Then I thought a far-off shout dropped across the stir 
water — 
A question as I took it, for soon an answer came 
From the tall white ruined lighthouse : " If it be the old 
man's daughter 
That we wot of," ran the answer, " what then — who's 
tc blame ? " 



RE QUI E SCAT IN PACE. 45 

I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and stonn- 
broken : 
A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out 
to sea ; 
Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had 
spoken, 
And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of mi;. 



him ; 
" He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the 

sun ; 
Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not 

shame him: 
Ay, the old man was a good man — and his work 

was done." 

The skiff was like a crescent, gliost of some moon de- 
parted. 
Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave 
she ci-()ssed, 
And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent 
dipped and darted. 
Flying on. again was sliouting, but the words were lost. 

I said, "That tiling is hooded; I could hear but that 
floweth 
The great IukuI btlow its mouth:" tlien the bird made 
reply. 



46 KEQUIESCAT /N PACE. 

" If they know not, raore's the pity, for the little shrew- 
mouse kuoweth, 
And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and 

pye." 

A.ud he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of llie 
coping ; 
And when once more the shout came, in querulous 
tones he spake, 
" Wliat I said was ' raore's the pity ; ' if the heart be 
long past hoping. 
Let it say of death, ' I know it,' or doubt on and break. 

^ Men must die — one dies by day, and near him moans 
his mother. 
They dig his gi'uve, tread it down, and go from it full 
loth : 
f^jxd one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, 
and no other, 
And the snows give him a burial — and God loven 
them both. 

- The first hath no advantage — it sliall not sootlio his 
slumber 
That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall 
keep ; 
for the last, he nothing griidgeth, it shall nought his 
quiet cumber, 
That in a golden mesh of iiis callow eaglets sleep. 



HE QUI L SCAT IN PACE. 47 

* Men must die when all is said, e'en the kite and glead 
know it, 
And the lad's father knew it, and tlie lad, the lad too ; 
It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds 
blow it, 
And he met it on the mountain — why then aiakr 
ado ? " 

With that he spread his white wings, and swept across 
the water. 
Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down ; 
And they laughed as tliey went under, and I woke, " the 
old man's daughter." 
And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer 
town. 

And I said, " Is that the sky, all gray and silver-suited ? " 

And I thought, "Is that tlie sea that lies so wiiite and 

wan ? 

I have dreamed as I remember : give me time — I was 

reputed 

Once to have a steady courage — O, I fear 'tis gone!" 

And 1 said, " Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating 

So he lies on tlie mountain, hard by the eagles' brood; 
I liave had a dream this evening, while the white and gold 
were fhicting, 
But 1 need not, need not tell it — where would be the 
^rood ? 



48 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

" Where would be the good to them, his father and his 
mother? 
For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to tliem 
still. 
While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red 
would smother, 
That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill i'' 

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter. 

But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. 
What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained 
to alter ? 
He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would 
ne'er come down. 

But, my first, my best, I could not choose but love 
thee: 
O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed ! 
From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and 
spread above thee ; 
I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. 

Fare thee well, my love of loves ! would I had died 
before thee ! 
O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flovY, 
Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being 
o'er thee, 
And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with 



SUFPKR AT THE MILL. 

Mother. 
Frances. 

Frances. 
Well, good mother, how are you ? 

iM. I'm hearty, lass, but warm ; the weather's warm : 
I think 't is mostly warm on market days. 
I met with George behind the mill : said he, 
" Mother, go in and rest awhile." 

F. Ay, do, 

And stay to supper ; put your basket down. 

M. Why, now, it is not heavy ? 

F. Willie, maa, 

Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no! 
Some call good churning luck ; but, luck or skill, 
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet 
A.S if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all? 

M. All but this pat that 1 put by for George ; 
lie always loved my butter. 

F. That he did. 

M. And has your speckled hen brought off her brood ? 

F. Not yet ; but that old duck I told you of, 
.Slio hatched eleven out of twelve to-day. 



50 SUPPER AT THE MIU.. 

Child. And, Granny, they're so yellow. 

M. Ay, my lad, 

Y'ellow as gold — yellow as Willie's hair. 

C. They're all mine, Granny, father says they're inine. 

M. To tiiiiik of that ! 

F. Ve.-*, Granny, only think ! 

Why, father means to sell them when they're fat, 
^Viid put the money in the savings-bank. 
And all against our AVillie goes to school : 
But Willie would not touch them — no, not he ; 
He knows that father would be angry else. 

V. But I want one to play with — O, 1 want 
A little yellow duck to take to bed ! 

M. What ! would ye rob the i)Oor old mother, then ? 

F. Now, Granny, if you'll hold the babe awhile ; 
Tis time I took up Willie to his crib. 

\^ExU FUANCES- 
\_Mother ainffs to the infant. j 

Playing on the virginals, 

Who but I ? Sae glad, sae free, 
SmelUng for all cordials, 

The green mint and marjorie ; 
Set among the budding broom, 

Kingcup and daflbdilly ; 
By my side 1 made liim room : 

O love my WiUic! 

"Like me, love me, girl o' gowd," 
Sang he to my nimble strain ; 
Sweet liis ruddy lips o'eriiowed 
Till my heartstrings rang again : 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 51 

By the broom, the bonny broom, 

ICingcup and (hiffodilly, 
In my heart I made liim room : 

O love my Willie ! 

" Pipe and play, dear heart," sang he, 

" I must go, yet pipe and play ; 
Soon I'll come and ask of thee 

For an answer yea or nay ; " 
And I waited till the flocks 

Panted in yon waters stilly. 
And the corn stood in the shocks : 

love my Willie ! 

I thought first when thou didst corae 

1 would wear the ring for thee, 
But the year told out its sum. 

Ere again thou sat'st by me ; 
Thou hadst nought to ask that day 

By kingcup and daffodilly ; 
I said neither yea nor nay : 

O love my Willie ! 

Enter George. 

George. Well, mother, 'tis a fortnight now, or more. 
Since I set eyes on you. 

M. Ay, George, my dear, 

I reckon you've been busy : so have we. 

G. And how docs father ? 

M. He gets through his work. 

But he grows stiff, a little stiff, ray dear ; 
lie's not so young, you know, by twenty yeare 



52 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

As I am — not so young by twenty years, 
And I'm past sixty. 

G. Yet he's hale and stout, 

And seems to take a pleasure in his pipe ; 
And seems to take a pleasure in his cows, 
And a pride, too. 

M. And well he may, my dear. 

G. Give me the little one, he tires your arm , 
He's such a kicking, crowing, wakeful rogue. 
He almost wears our lives out with his noise 
Just at day-dawning, when we wish to sleep. 
\Vliat ! you young villain, would you clench your fist 
In father's curls? a dusty father, sure. 
And you're as clean as wax. 

Ay, you may laugh ; 
But if you live a seven years more or so, 
Tliese hands of yours will all be brown and scx-atched 
With climbing after nest-eggs. They'll go down 
As many rat-holes as are round the mere ; 
And you'll love mud, all manner of mud and dirt, 
As your father did afore you, and you'll wade 
After young water-birds ; and you'll get bogged 
Setting of eel-traps, and you'll spoil your clothes. 
And come home torn and dripping : then, you know. 
You'll feel the stick — you'll feel the stick, my lad ! 

Enter Frances. 
F. You should not talk so to the blessed babe — 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 53 

How can you, George? why, lie may be in heaven 
Before the time you tell of. 

M. Look at liim : 

So earnest, such an eager pair of eyes ! 
He thrives, my dear. 

F. Yes, that he does, thank God 

My children are all strong. 

M. 'Tis much to say ; 

Sick children fret their mother's hearts to shreds, 
And do no credit to their keep nor care. 
Wliere Ls your little lass ? 

F. Your daughter came 
And begged her of us for a week or so. 

M. \yell, well, she might be wiser, that she might, 
For she can sit at ease and pay her way ; 
A sober husband, too — a cheerful man — 
Honest as ever stepped, and fond of her ; 
Yet she is never easy, never glad. 
Because she has not children. Well-a-day ! 
If she could know how hard her mother worked, 
And what ado I had, and what a moil 
With my half-dozen ! Children, ay^ forsooth. 
They bring their own love with them when they come, 
But if they come not there is peace and rest ; 
The pretty lambs ! and yet she cries for more : 
Why the woild 's full of them, and so is heaven — 
Tliey are not rare. 

G. No, mother, not at all ; 



54 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long — 
She spoils her. 

M. Ah I folks spoil their children now ; 

\Vlien I was a young woman 'twas not so; 
We made our children fear us, made them work, 
Kept them in order. 

G. Were not proud of them — 

Eh, mother ? 

M. I set store by mine, 'tis true, 

But then T had good cause. 

G. IVIy lad, d'ye hear ? 

Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud ! 
She never spoilt your father — no, not she, 
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home, 
Nor at the forge, nor at the baker's shop, 
Nor to the doctor while she lay abed 
Sick, and he crept upstairs to share her broth. 

M. Well, well, you were my youngest, and, what's more 
Your father loved to hear you sing — he did, 
Although, good man, he could not tell one tune 
From the other. 

F. No, he got his voice from you : 
Do use it, George, and send the child to sleep. 

G. What must I sing ? 

F. The ballad of the man 
That is so shy lie cannot speak his mind. 

G. Ay, of the pui-ple gi-apes and crimson leaves ; 
But, mother, put your shawl and bonnet oflf. 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 55 

A id, Frances, lass, I brought some cresses in : 
J'.ist wash them, toast the bacon, break some eggs, 
^ Tid let's to supper shortly. 

\_Sings.} 
My neighbor White — we met to-day — 
He always had a cheerful way, 

As if he breathed at ease ; 
My neighbor White lives down the glade. 
And I live liigher, in the shade 
Of my old walnut-trees. 

So many lads and lasses small, 

To feed them all, to clotlie tliem all, 

Must surely tax his wit ; 
I see his thatch when I look out. 
His branching roses creep about, 

And vines half smother it. 

There white-haired urchins climb his eaves. 
And little watch-fires heap with leaves, 

And milky filberts hoard ; 
And there his oldest daughter stands 
With downcast eyes and skilful hands 

Before her ironing-board. 

She comforts all her mother's days, 
And with lier sweet obedient ways 

She makes her labor light ; 
So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
O, she is much too good for me, 

That lovely Lettice White! 

'Tis liard to feel one's self a fool ! 
With that same lass I went to school — 



56 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

I tlien was great and wise ; 
She read upon an easier book, 
And I — I never cared to look 

Into her shy blue eyes. 

And now I know they must be there 
Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 

That will not raise tlieir rim : 
If maids be shy, lie cures who can ; 
But if a man be shy — a man — 

Why then the worse for him ! 

My mother cries, " For such a lad 
A wife is easy to be had 

And always to be found ; 
A finer scholar scarce can be, 
And for a foot and leg," says she, 

" He beats the country round ! 

*' My handsome boy must stoop liis head 

To clear her door whom he would wed. 

Weak praise, but fondly sung ! 

"O mother ! scholars sometimes fail — 

And what can foot and leg avail 

To him tliat wants a tongue ? " 

When by her ironing-board I sit, 
Her little sisters round me flit. 

And bring me forth their store ; 
Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, 
And small sweet apples bright of hue 

And crimson to tlie core. 

But slie abideth silent, fair, 
All sliaded by ber flaxen hair 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 67 

The blushes come and go ; 
I look, and I no more can speak 
Than the red sun that on her cheek 

Smiles as lie lleth low. 

Sometimes the roses by the latch 

Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch 

Come sailing down like birds ; 
When from their drifts her board I clear. 
She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 

The shyly uttered words. 

Ort have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
By daylight and by candlelight 

When we two were apart. 
Some better day come on apace, 
And let me tell her face to tace, 

" Maiden, thou hast my heart." 

[low gently rock yon poplars high 
Against tlie reach of primrose sky 

With heaven's pale candles stored ! 
She seeti them all, sweet Lettice White ; 
I'll e'en go sit again to-night 

Beside iier ironing-board ! 

NVliy, you young la.-^cnl ! who would think it, now? 
No sooner do I stoj) ilinn you look up. 
What woidd you liiivi; your poor old father do? 
Twas a brave song, long-winded, and not loud. 
M. He lieai'd the bacon sputter on the fork, 
And hcaid his mother's step across the floor. 
Where did you get that song? — 'tis new to me. 



58 SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

G. I bought it of a peddler. 
M. Did you so ? 

Well, you were always for the love-songs, George. 

F. My dear, just lay his head upon your arm. 
And if you'll pace and sing two minutes more 
He needs must sleep — his eyes are full of sleep. 

G. Do you sing, mother. 

F. Ay, good mother, do ; 

'Tis long since we have heard you. 

M. Like enough ; 

I'm an old woman, and the girls and lads 
I used to sing to sleep o'ertop me now. 
What should I sing fur ? 

G. Why, to pleasure us. 

Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit. 
And I'll pace gently with the little one. 

\_Motlier sings.'] 
When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth, 

My old sorrow wakes and cries, 
For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, 

And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 

And the icy founts run free, 
And the bergs begin to bow their heads. 

And plunge, and sail in the sea. 

O my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 

Where tlicy listen for words from below 1 



SUPPER AT THE MILL. 

Nay, 1 spoke once, and I grieved thee sore, 

I remember all that I said, 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — to more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 

Thou didst set thy foot on tlie ship, and sail 

To tlie ice-fields and the snow ; 
Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail. 

And the end I could not know ; 
How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 

Whom that day I held not dear ? 
How could I know I should love thee away 

When I did not love tliee anear'! 

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain 

With the faded bents o'erspread, 
We sliall stand no more by the seething main 

While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
We sliall part no more in the wind and tlie rain. 

Where thy last farewell was said ; 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again 

When the sea gives up her dead. 

F. Asleep at last, and time be was, indeed. 
Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in ; 
A-ud, mother, will you please to draw your chair ? — 
Tlie supper's ready. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

'HILE ripening corn grew thick and deep. 
^ And here and there men stood to reap, 
One morn I put my heart to sleep, 
And to the lanes I took my way. 
Tlie goldfinch on a thistle-head 
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed ; 
The wrens their pretty gossip spread, 
Or joined a random I'oundelay. 

On hanging cobwebs shone the dew, 
And thick the wayside clovers grew ; 
The feeding bee had much to do, 

So fast did honey-di-ops exude : 
She sucked and raurmui'cd, and was gone, 
And lit on other blooms anon, 
The while 1 learned a lesson on 

The source and sense of quietuUe. 

For slieei)-bclls chiming fVom a wold, 
Or bleat of lamb within its fold, 
Or cooing of love-legends old 

To dove wives make not (^uiet less ; 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 61 

Ecstatic chirp of winged thing, 
Or bubbling of the water-spring, 
Are sounds tliat more than silence bnng 
Itself and its delightsomeness. 

While thus I went to gladness foin, 
I had but walked a mile or twain 
Before my heart woke up again, 

As dreaming she had slept too late ; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own meanings she endued, 
And touched with her solicitude 

The natures she did meditate. 

*' If quiet is, for it I wait ; 
To it, ah ! let me wed my fate, 
And, like a sad wife, supplicate 

My roving lord no more to flee ; 
If leisure is — but, ah ! 'tis not — 
'Tis long past praying for, God wot ; 
The fashion of it men forgot. 

About the age of chivalry. 

" Sweet is the leisure of the bird ; 
She craves no time for work deferred ; 
(ler wings are not to aching stirred 

Providing for her helpless ones. 
Fair is the leisure of the wheat ; 
All night the danijjs about it fleet; 



62 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

All day it basketh in the heat, 
And gi-ow3, and whispers orisons. 

" Grand is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth, 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits wliose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, 

To wit if she would fly to him. 

" He waits for us, while, houseless things, 
W"e beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs, 

The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day. He waits sublime. 
Until the fulness of the time 

Decreed from His eternity. 

" Where is our leisure ? — give us rest. 

Where is the quiet we possessed ? 

We must have had it once — were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we prove yet some yearnings blind 

Inherited from Paradise." 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. G3 

" Hold, heart I " I cried ; " for trouble sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; 
I will not look inlo thv deeps — 

I am afraid, I am afraid ! " 
" Afraid ! " she saith ; " and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view — 
Should do the thing he fears to do, 

And storm the gliosts in ambuscade." 

" What good ? " I sigh. " Was reason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or soothe an ancient discontent. 

The instinct of a race dethroned ? 
Ah ! doubly should that instinct go 
Must the four rivers cease to flow. 
Nor yield those rumors sweet and low 

Wherewith man's life is undertoned." 

" Yet had I but the past," slie cries, 
** And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place. 
Once droi)ped among us, seem to chat»e 

Rest with their prophet-visitings. 

"The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be Sot 



G4 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

Plainly before him with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 

But ne'ertheless by much too old 

Not to perceive that men withhold 

Bfore of the story than is told. 
And so infer a mystery. 

" If the Celestials daily fly 
With messages on missions high, 
And float, our masts and turrets nigh, 

Conversing on Heaven's great intents ; 
What wonder hmts of coming things, 
Whereto man's hope and yearning clings. 
Should drop like feathers from tlieir wings 

And give us vague presentiments ? 

" And as the waxing moon can take 

The tidal waters in her wake, 

And lead them round and round to break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of His mind, 
The first Great Father of mankind, 
Aiiect with answering movements blind, 

And draw the souls that breathe by Him. 

" We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow, 
. And Eden bloom again below. 

We Iieard. and we began to wait : 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. G5 

Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined loi, 
And waiting for they know not what 
They strive with yearnings passionate. 

" Regret and faith alike enchain ; 
There Mas a loss, there comes a gain ; 
We stand at fault betwixt the twain, 

And tliat is veiled for which we paut. 
Our lives are short, our ten times seven ; 
We think the councils held in heaven 
Sit long, ere yet that blissful leaven 

Work j)eace amongst the militant. 

"Then we blame God that sin shoidd be: 
Adam began it at the tree, 
'The woman whom Thou gavest me; 
Aiid we adopt his dark device. 

long Thou tarriest ! come and reign, 
And bring forgiveness in Thy train, 
And give us in our hands again 

The apples of Thy Paradise." 

" Far-seeing heart ! if that be all 
The happy things that did not fall," 

1 sighed, " from e\ery coppice call 

They never from that garden went. 
Behold their joy, so comfort thee, 
Behold the blossom and the bee, 

VOL. I. — 5 



66 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

For they are yet as good and free 
As when poor P^ve was irinocent 

" But i-easou thus : ' If we sank low, 
If the lost garden we forego, 
Each in his day, nor ever know 

But in our poet souls its iace ; 
Yet we may rise until we reach 
A height untold of in its speech — 
A lesson that it could not teach 

Learn in this darker dwelling-place. 

"And reason on : ' We take the spoil ; 
Loss made us poets, and the soil 
Tauglit us great patience in our toil, 

And life is kin to God through death. 
Christ were not One with us but so, 
And if bereft of Him we go ; 
Dearer the heavenly mansions grow, 

His home, to man that wandereth.' 

" Content tliee so, and ease thy smart." 
With that she slept again, my heart, 
And I admired and took my part 

AVith oiowds of happy things the while: 
With open velvet butterflies 
That swung and spread their peacock eyes, 
As if tliey cared no more to rise 

From oil' their beds of camomile. 



::(;iIOLAR AND CARPENTER. 07 

The blackcaps in au orchard met. 
Praising the berries while they ate : 
The finch that flew her bealv to whet 

Before she joined them on the tree ; 
The water mouse among the reeds — 
His bright eyes ghmcing bhick as beads, 
So happy witli a bunch of seeds — 

I i'elt their gladness heartily. 

But I came on, I smelt the hay, 
And up the hills I took my way. 
And down them still made holiday, 

And walked, and weai-ied not a whit ; 
But ever with the lane 1 went 
Until it dropped with steep descent, 
Cut deep into the rock, a tent 

Of maple branches roofing ir. 

Adown the rock small runlets wept, 
And reckless ivies leaned and crept, 
And little spots of sunshine slept 

On its brown steeps and made them fair ; 
And broader beams athwart it shot. 
Where martins cheeped in many a knot, 
For they had ta'en a sandy plot 

And scooped another Petra there. 

And deeper down, hemmed in and hid 
From upper light and life amid 



68 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

The swallows gossiping, I thrid 

Its mazes, till the dipping land 
Sank to the level of my lane , 
That was the last hill of the chain, 
And fair below I saw the plain 

That seemed cold cheer to reprimand, 

Half-drowned in sleepy peace it lay, 
As satiate with the boundless play 
Of sunshine in its green array. 

And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue. 
To keep it safe rose up behind, 
As with a charmed ring to bind 
The grassy sea, where clouds might find 

A place to bi'ing their shadows to. 

I said, and blest that pastoral grace, 

" How sweet thou art, thou sunny place ! 

Thy God approves thy smiling face : " 

But straight my heart put in her word ; 
She said, "Albeit thy face I bless. 
There have been times, sweet wilderness, 
Wlien I have wished to love thee less, 

Such pangs thy smile administered." 

But, lo ! I reached a field of wheat, 
And by its gate full clear and sweet 
A workman sang, while at his feet 

Playe<l a young child, all life and stir — 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 69 

A three yem's' child, with rosy lip, 
Who in the song had partnership, 
Made happy with each falling chip 
Dropped by the busy carpenter. 

This, reared a new gate for the old. 
And loud the tuneful measure rolled, 
But stopped as I came up to hold 

Some kindly talk of passing things. 
Brave were his eyes, and frank his mien ; 
Of all men's faces, calm or keen, 
A better I have never seen 

In all my lonely wanderings. 

And how it was I scarce can tell. 
We seemed to please each other well ; 
I lingered till a noonday bell 

Had sounded, and his task was done. 
An oak had screened us from the heat; 
And 'neath it in the standing wlieat, 
A cradle and a fair retreat. 

Full sweetly slept the little one. 

The workman rested from his stroke, 
And manly were the words he spoke, 
Until the smiling babe awoke 

And prayed to him lor milk and food. 
Then to a runlet forth hi; went, 
And brou£;ht a wallet from tlie bent, 



70 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

And bade me to the meal, intent 

1 sliould not quit his neighborhood. 

" For here," said he, " are bread and beer. 
And meat enough to make good cheer ; 
Sir, eat with me, and have no fear. 

tor none upon my work depend. 
Saving this child ; and 1 may say 
That I am rich, for every day 
I put by somewhat ; therefore stay, 

And to such eathig condescend." 

We ate. The child — child fair to see — 
Began to cling about his knee, 
And he down leaning fatherly 

Received some softly-prattled prayer; 
He smiled as if to list were balm, 
And with his labor-hardened pahn 
Pushed from the baby-forehead calm 

Those shining locks that clustered there. 

The rosy mouth made fresh essay — 
" would he sing, or would he play ? " 
I looked, my thought would make its way - 

" Fair is your child of face and limb. 
The round blue eyes full sweetly shine." 
He answered me with glance benign — 
" Ay, Sir ; but he is none of mine. 

Although I set great store by him." 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 71 

With that, as if his heart was fain 
To open — nathless not complain — • 
He lei my quiet questions gain 

His story : " Not of kin to me," 
Repeating ; " but asleep, awake, 
For worse, for better, him I take. 
To cherish lor my dead wife's sake. 

And count him as her legacy. 

" 1 married with the sweetest lass 
That ever stepped on meadow grass ; 
That ever at her looking-glass 

Some pleasure took, some natural care ; 
That ever swept a cottage floor 
And worked all day, nor e'er gave o'er 
Till eve, then watched beside the door 

Till her good man should meet her there 

" But I lost all in its fresh prime ; 
My wife fell ill before her time — 
Just as the bells began to chime 

One Sunday morn. By next day's light 
Her little babe was bom and dead. 
And she, unconscious what she said, 
With feeble hands about her spread. 

Sought it with yearnings infinite. 

" Witli mother-longing still beguiled, 
And lost in lev(;r-fanci('s wild, 



72 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

She piteously bemoaned her child 

That we had stolen, she said, away. 
And ten sad days she sighed to me, 

* I caimot rest until I see 

My pretty one ! I think that he 
Smiled m my face but yesterday. 

"Then she would change, and faintly try 

To sing some tender lullaby ; 

And ' Ah !' would moan, ' if I sliould die, 

Who, sweetest babe, would cherish thee ? ' 
Then weep, ' INIy pretty boy is grown ; 
"With tender feet on the cold stone 
He stands, for he can stand alone. 

And no one leads him motherly.' 

" Then she witli dying movements slow 
Would seem to knit, or seem to sew : 
' His feet are bare, he must not go 
Unshod : ' and as her death drew on, 

* O little baby,' she would sigh ; 
' My little child, I cannot die 

Till I have you to slumber nigh — 
You, you to set mine eyes upon.' 

"When she spake thus, ujid moaning lay, 
They said, ' She cannot pass away. 
So sore she longs : ' and as the day 
Broke on tlie liills, T left Iier side. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 73 

Mourning along this lane I went ; 
Some travelling folk had pitched their tent 
Up yonder : there a woman, bent 
With age, sat meanly canopied. 

" A twelvemonths' child was at lier side : 
' Whose infant may that be ? ' I cried. 
' His that will own him,' she replied ; 

* His mother's dead, no worse could be.' 
Since you can give — or else 1 erred — 
See, you are taken at your word,' 
Quoth I ; ' That child is mine ; I heard, 

And own him ! Rise, and give him me.' 

" She rose amazed, but cursed me too ; 
She could not hold such luck for true, 
But gave him soon, with small ado. 

I laid him by my Lucy's side : 
Close to her face that baby crept, 
And stroked it, and the sweet soul Avept ; 
Then, while upon her arm he slept. 

She passed, for she was satisfied. 

" I loved her well, I wept her sore. 
And when her funeral left my door 
I thought that 1 should never more 
Feel any pleasure near me glow ; 
But I have learned, though this I had, 
'Tis sometimes natural to be slad, 



74 SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 

And no man can be always sad 
Unless he wills to have it so. 

" Oh, I had heavy nights at first, 
And daily wakening was the worst : 
For then my grief arose, and burst 

Like something fresh upon my head 
Yet when less keen it seemed to grow, 
I was not pleased — I wished to go 
Mourning adown this vale of woe, 

For all my life uncomforted. 

" I grudged myself the lightsome air, 
That makes man cheerful unaware ; 
When comfort came, I did not care 

To take it in, to feel it stir : 
And yet God took with me his plan. 
And now for my appointed span 
I think I am a happier man 

For having wed and wept for her. 

" Because no natural tie remains, 

On this small thing I spend my gains ; 

God makes me love him for my pains, 

And binds me so to wholesome care 
I would not lose from my past life 
That happy year, that happy wife ! 
Yet now I wage no useless strife 

With fei'b'iigs hlitlie and debonair. 



SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER. 75 

" I have the courage to be gay, 
Although she lieth lapped away 
Under the daisies, for I say, 

' Thou wouldst be ghid if thou couldst see ' : 
My constant thought makes manifest 
I have not what I love the best, 
But I must thank God for the rest 

"While I hold heaven a verity." 

He rose, upon his shoulder set 

The child, and while with vague regret 

We parted, pleased that we had met, 

My heart did with herself confer ; 
"With wholesome shame she did repent 
Her reasonings idly eloquent. 
And said, " I might be more content : 

But God go with the carpenter." 




THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

IN THE CONCLUDING PART OF A DISCOURSE ON FAMh 

{He thinks.) 

F there be memory in the world to come, 

If thought recur to some things silenced here, 
Then shall the deep heart be no longer dumb. 
But find expression in that happier sphere ; 
It shall not be denied their utmost sum 

Of love, to speak without or fault or fear, 
But utter to the harp with changes sweet 
Words that, forbidden still, then heaven were incomplete. 

(He speaks.) 

Now let us talk about the ancient days, 

And things which happened long before our birth : 

It is a pity to lament that praise 

Should be no shadow in the train of worth. 

Wliat is it. Madam, that your heart dismays ? 
Why murmur at the course of this vast earth? 

Think rather of the work than of the praise ; 

Come, we will talk about the ancient days. 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he) ; 
T will relate his story to you noAV. 



THE STAR'S .MONUMENT. 77 

VVliile through the branches of this apple-tree 
Some spots of sunshme flicker on your bi'ow ; 

Wliile every flower hath on its breast a bee, 
And every bird in stirring doth endow 

The grass with falling bloonis that smoothly glide, 

As ships di'op down a river with the tide. 

For telling of his tale no fitter place 

Then this old orchard, sloping to the west ; 

Through its pink dome of blossom I can trace 
Some overlying azure ; for the rest, 

These flowery branches round us interlace ; 
The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest : 

Who talks of fame while the religious Spring 

Offers the incense of her blossoming? 

There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), 
Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane. 

Took to his heart the hope that destiny 
Had singled him this guerdon to obtain. 

That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy 

Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain, 

And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes 

And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. 

" Master, good e'en to ye ! " a woodman said, 

Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. 
' This hoin- is fine " — the Poet bowed his head. 
" More fine," he tliought, " O friend ! to me appears 



78 THE STAR'S^ MONUMENT. 

The sunset than to you ; finer the spread 

Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, 
Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, 
Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. 

" finer far ! What work so high as mine, 
Interpreter betwixt the world and man, 

Nature's ungathered pea'-ls to set and shrine, 
The mystery she wraps Iier in to scan ; 

Her unsyllabic voices to combine, 

And serve her with such love as poets can ; 

With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind. 

Then die, and leave the poem to mankind ? 

" O fair, O fine, O lot to be desired ! 

Early and late my heart appeals to me, 
And says, ' O work, O will — Thou man, be fired 

To earn this lot,' — she says, ' I would not be 
A worker for mine own bread, or one hired 

For mine own profit. O, 1 would be free 
To work for others; love so earned of them 
Should be my wages and my diadem. 

" ' Then when I died I should not fall,' says she, 
' Like dropping flowers that no man noticeth. 

But like a great branch of some stately tree 
Rent in a tempest, and flung down to death, 

Thick with green leifage — so that piteously 
Each passer by tliat ruin shuddereth. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 79 

And saith, The gap this branch hath left is wide ; 
The loss thereof can never be supplied.' " 

But, Madam, while the Poet pondered so, 
Toward the leafy hedge he turned his eye, 

And saw two slender branches that did grow. 
And from it rising spring and flourish high : 

Their tops Avere twined together fast, and, lo. 
Their shadow crossed the path as he went by — 

The shadow of a wild rose and a brier. 

And it was shaped in semblance like a lyre. 

In sooth, a lyi-e ! and as the soft air played, 
Those branches stirred, but did not disunite. 

" O emblem meet for me ! " the Poet said ; 
" Ay, I accept and own thee for my right ; 

The shadowy lyre across my feet is laid, 

Distinct though fi-ail, and clear with crimson light ; 

Fast is it twined to bear the windy strain. 

And, supple, it will bend and rise again. 

" This lyre is cast across the dusty way. 

The common path that common men pursue , 

I crave like blessing lor my shadowy lay, 
Life's trodden paths with beauty to renew, 

And cheer the eve of many a toil-stained day. 
Light it, old sun, wet it, thou common dew, 

Tliat 'neatli men's feet its image still may be 

While yet it waves above them, living lyre, like theo!" 



80 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

But even as the Poet spoke, behold 
He lifted up his face toward the sky ; 

The ruddy sun dipt under the gray wold, 

His sliadowy lyre was gone; and, passing by, 

The woodman lifting up his shears, was bold 
Their temper on those branches twain to try, 

And all their loveliness and leafage sweet 

Fell in the pathway, at the Poet's feet. 

" Ah ! my fair emblem that I chose," quoth he, 
" That for myself I coveted but now. 

Too soon, methinks, thou hast been false to me ; 
The lyre from pathway fades, tlie light from brow. 

Then straightway turned he from it hastily, 
As dream that waking sense will disallow ; 

And while the highway heavenward paled apace, 

He went on westwai'd to his dwelling-place. 

tie went on steadily, while far and fast 

The summer darkness dropped upon the world, 

A gentle air among the cloudlets passed 

And fanned away their crimson ; then it curled 

The yellow poppies iii the field, and cast 
A dimness on the grasses, for it furled 

Their daisies, and swept out the purple stain 

That eve had left upon the pastoral plain. 

Ele readied his city. Lo ! the darkened street 
Where lie abode \^■as full of gazing crowds ; 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. gl 

He heard the muffled tread of many feet ; 

A multitude stood gazing at the clouds. 
"What mark ye there," said he, ''and wherefore meet?' 

Only a passing mist the heaven o'ershrouds ; 
It breaks, it parts, it drifts like scattered spars — 
Wliat lies behind it but the nightly stars?" 

riieu did the gazing crowd to him aver 

They sought a lamp in heaven whose light was hid : 
For that in sooth an old Astronomer 

Down from his roof had rushed into their mid, 
Friglited, and fain with others to confei'. 

That he had cried, " sirs ! " — and upward bid 
Them gaze — " O sirs, a light is quenched alar ; 
Look up, my mastei's, we have lost a star ' " 

The people pointed, and the Poet's eyes 
Flew upward, where a gleaming sisterhood 

Swam in the dewy heaven. The very skies 
Were mutable ; for all-amazed he stood 

To see that truly not in any wise 
lie could behold them as of old, nor could 

II is eyes receive the whole whereof he wot, 

l)nl when he told them over, one \VAs not. 

While yet he gazed and pondi'red reverently, 

The tickle folk began to move away. 
"It is but one s'ar less for us to see ; 

And wluit does one star signify?" quoth they: 



82 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 



" The heavens are full of them." " But, ah ! " said he, 
" That star was bright while yet she lasted." " Ay ! 
They answered : " Praise her, Poet, an' ye will : 
Some are now shining that are brighter stiU.." 

" Poor star ! to be disparaged so soon 

On her withdrawal," thus the Poet sighed ; 

" That men should miss, and straight deny her noon 
Its brightness ! " But the people in their prido 

Said, " How are we beholden ? 'twas no boon 
She gave. Her nature 'twas to shine so wide : 

She could not choose but ^hine, nor could Ave know 

Such star had ever dwelt in heaven but so." 

The Poet answei-ed sadly, " That is true ! " 
And then he thought upon unthankluluess ; 

While some went homeward ; and the residue. 
Reflecting that the stars are numberless, 

Mourned that man's daylight hours should be so few, 
So short the shining that his path may bless : 

To nearer themes then tuned their willing lips, 

And thought no moi-e upon the star's eclipse. 

But he, the Poet, could not rest content 
Till he had found that old Astronomer ; 

Therefore at midnight to his house he went 
And prayed him be his tale's interpreter. 

And yet upon the heaven liis eyes he bent. 
Hearing tlie mar\el ; yet lu; sought for her 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 83 

Thai was awanting, in the hope her face 
Once more might fill its relt abiding-place. 

Then said the old Astronomer : " My son, 

I sat alone upon my roof to-night ; 
1 saw the stars come fortli, and scarcely shnn 

To fringe the edges of the western light ; 
I marked those ancient clusters one by one, 

The same that blessed our old forefather's sight 
For God alone is older — none but He 
Can charge the stars with mutability : 

"The elders of the night, the steadfast stars, 
The old, old stars which God has let us see, 

That they might be our soul's auxiliai-s, 

And help us to the ti-uth how young we be — 

God's youngest, latest born, as if, some spars 
And a little clay being over of them — He 

Had made our world and us thereof, yet given. 

To humble us, the sight of His great heaven. 

" But ah ! my son, to-night mine eyes have seen 
The death of light, the end of old renown; 

A shrinking back of glory that had been, 
A drt;ad eclipse before the P^.ternal's frown. 

How soon a little grass will giow between 
These eyes and tliose appointed to look dowB 

Upon a woild that was not made on high 

Till the last scenes of tlieir long empiry ! 



84 THE STAR'S MONUMEN'l. 

" To-niglil that sliiiiii)g cluster now despoiled 

Lay in day's wake a perfect sisterhood ; 
Sweet was its light to ine that long had toiled, 

It gleamed and trembled o'er the distant wood , 
Blown in a pile tlie clouds from it recoiled, 

Cool twilight up tlie sky her way made good ; 
I saw, but not believed — it was so strange — 
That one of those same stars had suffered change. 

" The darkness gathered, and methought she s])read. 
Wrapped in a reddish haze that waxed and waned ; 

But notwithstanding to myself I said — 
' The stars are changeless ; sure some mote hath stained 

Mine eyes, and her fair glory miuished.' 
Of age and failing vision I complained. 

And ihought ' some vai)or in the heavens doth swim, 

That makes her look so lai-ge and yet so dim.' 

" But I gazed round, and all her lustrous peers 
In her red presence showed but wan and white 

F'or like a living coal beheld through tears 

She glowed and quivered witli a gloomy light : 

Mi'thouglit she trembled, as all sick througli fears, 
nel|)less, appalled, appealing to the night ; 

I, ike one who throAVS his arms up to the sky 

yVud bows down suffering, hopeless of reply. 

"At length, as if an everlasting Hand 
Had taken hold upon her in her place. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 85 

And swilltly, like a golden srniin of sand, 
Through all the deep infinitudes of space 

Was drawing her— God's ti-uth as hei-e I stand — 
Backward and inward to itself; her face 

Fast lessened, lessened, till it looked no mortf 

Thau smallest atom on a boundless shore. 

"And she that was so fair, I saw her lie, 

The smallest thing in God's great firmament, 

Till night was at the darkest, and on high 

Her sisters glittered, though her light was spent ; 

I strained, to folloAV her, each aching eye. 
So swiftly at her Maker's will she went ; 

I looked again — I looked — the star was gone, 

Aud nothing marked in heaven where she had shone." 

" Gone ! " said the Poet, " and about to be 

Forgotten : O, how sad a fate is hers ! " 
" How is it sad, my son ? " all reverently 

The old man answered ; " though she ministera 
No longer with her lamp to me and thee. 

She has fulfilled her mission. God transfers 
Or dims her ray ; yet was she blest as bright, 
For all her life was spent in giving light." 

" Her mission she fulfdled assuredly," 
The Poet cried ; " but, O unhappy star ! 

None praise and few will bear in memory 

The name she went by. O, from far, from far 



8(5 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Comes dowiijinetlunk?, Iier mournful voice to mo, 

Full of regrets that men so thankless are." 
So said, he told that old Astronomer 
All that the gazing crowd had said of her. 

And he went on to speak in bitter wise, 
As one who seems to tell another's fate, 

But feels that nearer meaning underlies, 
And points its sadness to his own estate : 

" If such be the reward," he said with sighs, 
" Envy to earn for love, for goodness hate — 

If such be thy reward, hard case is tliiue ! 

It had been better for thee not to shine. 

" If to reflect a light that is divine 

Makes that which doth reflect it better seen, 

And if to see is to contemn the shrine, 
'Twere surely better it had never been : 

It had been better for her not to shine, 
And for me not to sing. Better, I ween, 

For us to yield no more that radiance bright. 

For them, to lack the light than scorn the light." 

Strange words were those from Poet lips (said he) ; 

And then he paused, and sighed, and turned to look 
Upon the lady's downcast eyes, and see 

How fast the honey-bees in settling shook 
Tliose apple blossoms on her from the tree ; 

He watched her busy fingers as they took 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 87 

And slipped the Iviiotted thread, and thought how imich 
He would have given that hand to hold — to touch. 

At length, as suddenly become aware 

Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, 

i\ud he withdrew his eyes — she looked so fair 
And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace. 

"Ah ! little dreams she of the restless care," 

He thought, " that makes my heart to throb apace : 

Though Ave this morning part, the knowledge sends 

No thrill to her calm pulse — we are but friends." 

Ah ! turret clock (he thought), I would thy hand 
Were hid behind yon towering maple-trees ! 

Ah ! tell-tale shadow, but one moment stand — 
Dark shadow — fast advancing to my knees ; 

Ah ! foolish heart (he thought), that vainly planned 
By feigning gladness to arrive at ease ; 

Ah ! painful hour, yet pain to think it ends ; 

I must remember that we are but friends. 

And while the knotted thread moved to and fro, 

In sweet regretful tones that lady said : 
" It seemeth that the fame you would forego 

The Poet whom you tell of coveted ; 
liut I would fain, methinks, his story know. 

And was he loved ? " said she, " or was he wed ? 
And had he friends ? " " One fi-iend, perhaps," said he, 
'• But for the rest, I pray you let it be." 



88 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Ah ! little bird (he thought), most patient bird, 
Breasting thy speckled eggs the long day through, 

By so much as my reason is preferred 

Above thine instinct, I my work would do 

Better than thou dost thine. Thou liast not stirred 
This hour thy wing. Ah ! russet bird, I sue 

For a like patience to wear tlu-ough these hours — 

Bird on thy nest among the apple-flowers. 

I will not speak — I will not speak to tliee, 
My star ! and soon to be my lost, lost star. 

The sweetest, first, that ever slione on me, 
So high above me and beyond so far ; 

I can forego thee, but not bear to see 

My love, like rising mist, thy lustre mar : 

That were a base return for thy sweet light. 

Shine, though I never more shall see that thou art bright. 

Never ! 'Tis certain that no hope is — none ! 

No hope for me, and yet for thee no fear. 
The hardest part of my hard task is done ; 

Thy calm assures me that I am not dear ; 
Though far and fast the rapid moments run, 

Thy bosom heaveth not, thine eyes are clear ; 
Silent, perhaps a little sad at heart 
She is. I am her friend, and I depart. 

Silent she had been, but she raised her face ; 

"And will you end," said she, " this half-told tale ? " 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 39 

•* Yes, it were best," he answered liex*. " The phice 
Where I left off was where he felt to fail 

His courage, INIadam, through the fancy base 
That they who love, endure, or Avork, mny i-ail 

And cease — if all their love, the works they wrought, 

And their endurance, men have set at nought." 

" It had been better for me not to sing," 
My Poet said, " and for her not to shine ; " 

But him the old man answered, son-owing, 
•' My son, did God who made her, the Divine 

Lighter of suns, when down to yon bright ring 
He cast her, like some gleaming almandine, 

And set her in her place, begirt with rays, 

Say imto her ' Give light,' or say ' Earn praise ? ' " 

The Poet said, " He made her to give light." 

" My son," the old man answered, " Blest are such ; 

A blessed lot is theii'S ; but if each night 

jMankind had praised her radiance, inasmuch 

As praise had never made it wax more bright. 
And cannot now rekindle with its touch 

Her lost effulgence, it is nought. I wot 

That praise was not her blessing nor her lot." 

"Ay," said the Poet, " I my words abjure, 

And I repent me that I uttered them ; 
But by her light and by its forfeiture 

She shall not pass without her lequiem. 



90 THE STAR'S MONUMENT 

Though my name perish, yet shall hers endure ; 

Though I should be forgotten, she, lost gem. 
Shall be remembered ; though she sought not fame, 
It shall be busy witli her beauteous name. 

" For I will raise in her bright memory, 

Lost now on earth, a lasting monument, 
And graven on it shall recorded be 

That all her rays to light mankind were spent ; 
And I will sing albeit none heedeth me, 

On her exemplar being still intent : 
While in men's sight shall stand the record thus — 
' So long as she did last she lighted us.' " 

So said, he raised, according to his vow. 

On the green grass where oft his townsfolk met, 

Under the shadow of a leafy bough 
That leaned toward a singing rivulet. 

One pure white stone, whereon, like crown on brow. 
The image of the vanished star was set ; 

And this was graven on the pure white stone 

In golden letters — " While she lived she shonk." 

INIadam, 1 cannot give this story well — 

My heart is beating to another chime ; 
My voice must needs a different cadence swell ; 

It is yon singing bird, which all the time 
Wooeth his nested mate, that doth dispel 

My thoughts. What, deem you, could a lover's rhyme 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 91 

The sweetness of that passionate lay excel ? 

soft, lo^v her voice — "I caimot tell." 

(He thinks.) 

Tlie old man — ay, he spoke, he was not hard ; 

" She was his joy," he said, " his comforter, 
I»ut he would trust me. I was not debarred 

Whate'er my heart approved to say to her." 
Approved ! torn and tempted and ill-starred 

And breaking heart, approve not nor demur ; 
It is the serpent that beguileth thee 
With '' God doth know " beneath this apple-tree. 

Yea, God doth know, and only God doth know. 
Have pity, God, my spirit groans to Thee ! 

1 bear Thy curse primeval, and I go ; 

But heavier than on Adam falls on me 
My tillage of the wilderness ; for lo, 

I leave behind the woman, and I see 
As 'twere the gates of Eden closing o'er 
To hide her from my sight for evermore. 

(He speaks.) 

I am a fool, with sudden start he cried, 
To let the song-bird work me such unrest : 

If 1 break off again, I pray you chide, 
For morning fieeteth, with my tale at best 

Half told. That white stone. Madam, gleamed beside 
The little rivulet, and all men pressed 



92 77/E STAR'S MONUMENT. 

To read the lost one's story traced thereon, 

The golden legend — " "While she lived she shone." 

And, IMadani, when the Poet heard them read. 
And children spell the letters softly through, 

ft maybe that he felt at heart some need. 
Some craving to be thus remembered too ; 

It may be that he wondei-ed if indeed 

He must die wholly when he passed from view ; 

It may be, wished when death his eyes made dim, 

That some kind hand would raise such stone for him. 

But shortly, as there comes to most of lis, 
There came to him the need to quit liis home : 

To tell you why were simply hazardous. 

What said I, INIadam ? — men were made to roam 

INIy meaning is. It hath been always thus : 
They are athirst for mountains and sea-foam ; 

Fleirs of this world, what wonder if perchance 

They long to see their grand inheritance? 

He left his city, and went forth to teach 
Mankind, his peers, the hidden harmony 

That miderlies God's discords, and to reach 
And touch the master-string that like a sigh 

Thrills in their souls, as if it would beseech 
Some hand to sound it, and to satisfy 

Its yearning for expression : but no word 

Till poet touch it !>a(h to make its music heard. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. i 

(He thinks.) 

I kiiow that God is good, though evil dwells 
Among us, and doth all things holiest share ; 

That there is joy iu heaven, while yet our knells 
Sound for the souls which He has summoned there : 

That painful love unsatisfied hath spells 
Earned by its smart to soothe its fellows care: 

But yet this atom cannot in the whole 

Forget itself — it aches a separate soul. 

(He speaks.) 
But, IMadam, to my Poet I return. 

With his sweet cadences of woven words 
He made their rude untutored hearts to burn 

And melt like gold refined. No brooding birds 
Sing better of the love that doth sojourn 

Hid in the nest of home, which softly girds 
The beating heart of life ; and, strait though it be. 
Is straitness better than wide liberty. 

lie taught them, and they learned, but not the less 
Remained unconscious whence that lore they drew, 

!)Ut dieam(;d that of their native nobleness 

Some lol'ty thoughts, that lie had planted, grew ; 

His glorious maxims in a lowly dress 

Like seed sown broadcast spi-ung hi all men's view. 

The sower, passing onward, was not known. 

And all men leaned the harvest as their own. 



94 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

It may be, Madam, that those balhuls sweet. 
Whose rhythmic words we sang but yesterday, 

Which time and changes make not obsolete, 
But (as a river blossoms bears away 

That on it drop) take with them while they fleet — 
It may be his they are, from him bear sway : 

But who can tell, since work surviveth fame? — 

The rhyme is left, but lost the Poet's name. 

lie worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust — ■ 
So long he wandered so^ving worthy seed. 

Watering of wayside buds that were adust, 
And touching for the common ear his reed — 

So long to wear away the cankering rust 

That dulls the gold of life — so long to plead 

With sweetest music for all souls oppressed, 

That he was old ere he had thought of rest. 

Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff, 
To that great city of his birth he came. 

And at its gates he paused with wondernig laugh 

To think how changed were all his tluniglits of fame 

Since first he carved the golden e[)itaph 
To keep in memory a worthy name, 

And thought fbrgetfulness had been its doom 

But for a few bright letters on a tomb. 

llie old Astronomer had long since died ; 

The friends of youth wei-e gone and far dispersed , 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Strango were the domes that rose on every side ; 

Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst ; 
The men of yesterday their business plied ; 

No face was left that he had known at first ; 
And in the city gardens, lo, he sees 
I'he saplings that he set are stately trees. 

Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade, 
Behold ! he marks the fair white monument, 

And on its face the golden words displayed. 
For sixty years their lustre have not spent ; 

He sitteth by it and is not afraid. 

But in its shadow he is well content ; 

And envies not, tliough bright their gloamings are. 

The golden letters of the vanished star. 

lie gazetJi uj) ; exceedhig bright appears 
That gf)lden legend to his aged eyes, 

For they are dazzled till they fill with tears, 
And ills lost Youth doth like a vision rise ; 

Slie saith to him, "In all these toilsome years, 
What hast thou won by work or enterprise ? 

What Jiast thou won to make amends to tliee, 

As thou didst sweai- to do, Ibi- loss of me ? 

" man ! white-haired man ! " the vision said. 

" Since we two sat beside this monument 
Life's clearest hues are all evanished ; 

The golden wealth thou hadst of me is spent ; 



96 TEE STARS MONUMENT. 

The wind hath swept thy flowers, their leaves are shed 

The music is phiyed out that with thee went." 
" Peace, peace ! " he cried, " I lost tliee, but, in truth, 
Tliere are worse losses than the loss of youth." 

Ife said not what those losses were — but I — 
But I must leave them, for the time di'aws near. 

Some lose not on^ly joy, but memory 

Of liow it felt : not love that Avas so dear 

Lose only, but the steadfast certainty 

That once they had it ; doubt comes on, then fear, 

And after that despondency. I wis 

The Poet must have meant sucli loss as this. 

But while he sat and pondered on his youth. 
He said, " It did one deed that dotli remain, 

For it preserved the memoi-y and the truth 
Of her that now dotli neitlier set nor wane. 

But shine in all men's thought ; nor sink forsooth, 
And be forgotten like the summer rain. 

O, it is good that man sliould not forget 

Or benefits foregone or brightness set ! " 

lie spoke and said, " My lot contenteth me ; 

1 am right glad for tliis her worthy fame ; 
Tliat which was good and gi-eat I f lin would see 

Di-awn with a halo round what rests — its name." 
This while tlie Poet said, behold there came 

A workman with liis tools anear the tree. 



THE STARS MONUMENT. 97 

And when he read the words he paused awhile 
And pondered on them with a wondering sraiie. 

And then he said, " I pray you, Sir, what mean 

The golden letters of this monument ? " 
In wonder quoth the Poet, " Hast thou been 

A dweller near at hand, and their intent 
Hast neither heard by voice of fame, nor seen 

The marble earlier ? " "Ay," said he, and leant 
Upon his spade to hear the tale, then sigh, 
And say it was a marvel, and pass by. 

Then said the Poet, " This is strange to me." 
But as he mused, with trouble in his mind, 

A band of maids approached him leisurely. 
Like vessels sailing with a favoring wind ; 

And of their rosy lips requested he. 

As one that for a doubt would solving find. 

The tale, if tale there Avere, of that white stone, 

And those fair letters — " Wliile she lived she slione.' 

Then like a fleet that floats becalmed they stay. 

" O, Sir," saith one, " this monument is old ; 
But we have heard our virtuous mothers say 

That by their mothers thus the tale was told : 
A Poet made it ; journeying then away, 

He left us ; and though some the meaning hold 
For other than the ancient one, yet we 
Receive this legend for a cei'tairity : — 



98 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

•' There was a lily once, most purely white, 
Beneath the shadow of these boughs it grew ; 

Its stany blossom it unclosed by night, 

And a young Poet loved its shape and hue. 

He watched it nightly, 'twas so fair a sight, 
Until a stormy wind arose and blew, 

And when he came once more his flower to greet 

lis fallen petals drifted to his feet. 

"And for his beautiful white lily's sake, 

That she might be remembered where her scent 

Had been right sweet, he said that he would make 
In her dear memory a monument : 

For she was purer than a driven flake 

Of snow, and in her grace most excellent ; 

The loveliest life that death did ever mar, 

As beautiful to gaze on as a star." 

" I thank you, maid," the Poet answered her, 
"And I am glad that I have heard your tale." 

With that they passed ; and as an inlander, 
Having heard breakers raging in a gale, 

And falling down in thunder, will aver 
That still, Avlien tar away in grassy vale, 

He seems to hear those seething waters bound, 

So in his ears the maiden's voice did sound. 

He leaned his face upon his hand, and thouglif. 
And thought, until a youth came 'oy tliat way ■, 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT 99 

AirI once again of him the Poet sought 
Tlie story of the star. But, well-a-day! 

He said, " The meaning with much doubt is fraught. 
The sense thereof can no man surely say ; 

I-'oi- still tradition sways the common ear, 

i'hat of a truth a star did disappear. 

' Hut they who look beneath the outer shell 
That wraps the ' kernel of the people's lore,' 

Hold THAT for superstition ; and they tell 
That seven lovely sisters dwelt of yore 

In this old city, where it so befell 

That one a Poet loved ; that, furthermore, 

As stars above us she was pure and good, 

And fairest of that beauteous sisterhood. 

" So beautiful they were, those virgins seven. 

That all men called them clustered stai-s in song. 

Forgetful that the stars abide in heaven : 
But woman bideth not beneath it long ; 

I'^or O, alas ! alas ! one fated even 
When stars tlieir azure deeps began to throng, 

That virgin's eyes of Poet loved waxed dim, 

And all their lustrous shining w^aned to him. 

" In summer dusk she drooped her head and siglicd 
Until what time the evening star went down, 

And all the other stars did shining bide 
Clear in the lustre of their old renown, 

LofC. 



100 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

And then — the virgin laid her down and died : 
Forgot her youth, forgot her beauty's crown, 
Forgot the sisters whom she loved before. 
And broke her Poet's heart for evermore." 

" A mournful tale, in sooth," the lady saith : 
" But did he truly grieve for evermore ? " 

" It may be you forget," he answereth, 
" That this is but a fable at the core 

O' the other fable." " Though it be but breath," 
She asketh, " was it true ? " — then he, " This lore 

Since it is fable, either way may go ; 

Then, if it please you, think it might be so." 

" Nay, but," she saith, " if I had told your tale, 
The virgin sliould have lived his home to bless, 

Or, must she die, I would have made to fail 
His useless love." " I tell you not the less," 

He sighs, " because it was of no avail : 
His heart the Poet would not dispossess 

Thereof. But let us leave the fable now. 

My Poet heard it with an aching brow." 

And he made answer thus : " I thank thee, youth ; 

Strange is thy story to these aged ears, 
But I bethink me thou hast told a truth 

Under the guise of fable. If my tears, 
Tliou lost beloved star, lost now, forsooth, 

Indeed could bring thee back among thy peers, 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 101 

So new thou slioiild'st be deemed as newly seeu. 
For men forget that thou hast ever been. 

" There was a morning when I longed for fame, 
There was a noontide when I passed it by, 

There is an evening when I think not shame 
Its substance and its being to deny ; 

For if men bear in mind great deeds, the name 
Of him that wrought them sliall they leave to die ; 

Or if his name they shall have deathless writ, 

They change the deeds that first ennobled it. 

" O golden letters of this monument ! 

words to celebrate a loved renown 
Lost now or wrested ! and to fancies lent, 

Or on a labled forehead set for crown, 
For my departed star, I am content, 

Though legends dim and years her meniniy drown : 
For nought were fame to her, compared and set 
\\y this great truth which ye make lustrous yet." 

" Adieu ! " the Poet said, " my vanished star, 

Thy duty and thy happiness were one. 
Work is heaven's best ; its fame is sublunar : 

The fame thou dost not need — the work is done. 
For thee I am content that these things are ; 

More than content were I, my race being run, 
Might it be true of me, though none thereon 
Should muse regretful — ' While he lived he shone.' " 



102 THE STAR'S MONUMENT 

So said, the Poet rose and went his way, 

And that same lot he proved wiiereof he si)ake. 

Madam, my story is told out ; the day 

Draws out her shadows, time doth overtake 

The morning. That which endeth call a lay, 
Sung after pause — a motto in the break 

Between two chapters of a tale not new, 

Nor joyful — but a common tale. Adieu ! 

And that same God who made your face so fair, 
And gave your woman's heart its tendei-ness, 

So shield the blessing He implanted there, 
That it may never turn to your distress. 

And never cost you trouble or despair, 

Nor granted leave the granter comfortless ; 

But like a river blest where'er it flows. 

Be still I'cceiving while it still bestows. 

Adieu, he said, and paused, while she sat mute 
In the soft shadow of the apple-tree ; 

The skylark's song rang like a joyous flute, 
The brook went prattling past her restlessly : 

She let their tongues be her tongue's substitute ; 
It was the wind that sighed, it was not she : 

And what the lark, the brook, the wind, had said, 

^Ve cannot tell, for none interpreted. 

rheu" counsels might be hard to reconcile, 
They might not suit the moment or the spot. 



THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 103 

She rose, and laid her work aside the while 
Down in the sunshine of that grassy plot ; 

She looked upon him with an almost smile, 
And held to him a hand that faltered not. 

One moment — bird and brook went Avarblmg on, 

And the wind sighed again — and he was gone. 

So quietly, as if she heard no more 

Or skylark in the azure overhead, 
Or water slipping past the cressy shore, 

Or wind that rose in sighs, and sighing fled — 
So quietly, until the alders hoar 

Took him beneath them ; till the downward spread 
Of planes engulfed him in their leafy seas — 
She stood beneath her rose-tlushed apple-trees. 

And then she stooped toward the mossy grass. 
And gathered up her work and went her way ; 

Straight to that ancient turret she did pass, 

And startle back some fawns that were at play. 

Slie did not sigh, slie never said " Alas ! " 

Although he svas her friend : but still that day. 

Where elm and hornbeam spread a towering dome, 

She crossed the dells to her ancestral home. 

And did she love him ? — what if she did not ? 

Then home was still the home of happiest years 
N'or thought was exiled to partake his lot. 

Nor lieart lost courage through forboding fears ; 



104 THE STAR'S MONUMENT. 

Nor echo did against her secret plot, 

Nor music her betray to painful tears ; 
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim. 
And riches poverty, because of him. 

But did she love him ? — what and if she did ? 

Love cannot cool the burning Austral sand. 
Nor show the secret waters that lie hid 

In arid valleys of that desert land. 
Love has no spells can scorching winds forbid. 

Or bring the help which tarries near to hand, 
Or spread a cloud for curtaining faded eyes 
That gaze up dying into alien skies. 





A DEAD YEAR. 

TOOK a year out of my life and story — 
A dead year, and said, " I will hew thee a 
tomb! 

'All the kings of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old ; 
Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold. 

" Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory. 
Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter- 
mouse — 

Each with his name on his brow. 
'All the kings of the nations lie in glory, 
Kvery one in his own house : ' 

Then why not thou ? 

" Year," I said, " thou shalt not lack 
Bribes to bar thy coming back ; 
Doth old Egypt wear her best 
In the chambers of her rest ? 
Doth she take to her last bed 
Beaten gold, and glorious red ? 



106 A DEAD YEAR. 

Envy not ! for thou wilt wear 
In the dark a shroud as fair ; 
Golden with the sunny ray 
Thou withdrawest from my day ; 
Wrought upon with colors fine. 
Stolen from this life of mine ; 
Like the dusty Lybian kings. 
Lie with two wide open wings^ 
On thy breast, as if to say, 
On these wings hope flew away ; 
And so housed, and thus adorned, 
Not forgotten, but not scorned. 
Let the dark for evermore 
Close thee when I close the door ; 
And the dust for ages fall 
In the creases of thy pall ; 
And no voice nor visit I'ude 
Break thy sealed solitude." 

1 took tlie year out of my life and story. 
The dead year, and said, " I have hewed thee a torah 

'All the kings of tlie nations lie in gloiy, ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom ; 
But for the sword, and the sceptre, and diudem, 
Sure thou didst reign like them." 
So I laid her with those tyrants old and hoary, 

According to my vow ; 
For 1 said, " The kings of the nations lie in glory, 
And so shalt thou ! " 



A DEAD YEAR. 107 

" Rock," I said, " thy ribs are st]-ong. 

That I bring thee guard it long ; 

Hide the light from buried eyes — 

Hide it, lest the dead arise." 

" Year," I said, and tin-ned away, 

" I am free of thee this day ; 

All that we two only know, 

T forgive and I forego, 

So thy face no more I meet, 

In the field or in tlie street." 

Thus we parted, she and I ; 
Life hid death, and put it by ; 
lyife hid death, and said, " Be free 
1 have no more need of thee." 
No more need ! O mad mistake, 
With repentance in its Avake ! 
Ignorant, and rash, and blind, 
Life had left the grave beliind ; 
But had locked Avithin its hold 
With the spices and the gold. 
All she had to keep her warm 
In the raging of the storm. 

Scarce the sunset bloom was gone, 
And the little stars outshone. 
Ere the dead year, stiff" and stark, 
Drew me to her in the dark ; 
Death drew life to come to her. 



108 A DEAD YEAR. 

Beating at her sepulchre, 
Crying out, " How can I part 
With the best share of my heart ? 
Lo, it lies upon the bier. 
Captive, with the buried year. 

my heart ! " And I fell prone, 
Weeping at the sealed stone ; 

" Year among the shades," I said, 
" Since I live, and thou art dead, 
Let my captive heart be free. 
Like a bird to fly to me." 
And I stayed some voice to win. 
But none answered from within ; 
And I kissed the door — and night 
Deepened till the stars waxed bright < 
And I saw them set and wane. 
And the world turn green again. 

" So," I whispered, " open door, 

1 must tread this palace floor — 
Sealed palace, rich and dim. 
Let a narrow sunbeam swim 
After me, and on me spread 
While I look upon my dead ; 
Let a little warmth be free 

To come after ; let me see 
Through the doorway, when I sit 
Looking out, the swallows flit, 
Settling not till daylight goes ; 



J DEAD YEAR. 109 

Let me smell the wild white rose, 

Smell the woodbine and the may ; 

INIark, upon a sunny day, 

Sated from their blossoms rise. 

Honey-bees and butterflies. 

Let me hear, O ! let me hear, 

Sitting by my buried year. 

Finches chirping to their young, 

And the little noises flung 

Out of clefts where rabbits play, 

Or from falling water-spi'uy : 

And the gracious echoes woke 

By man's work : the woodman's stroke, 

Shout of shepherd, whistlings blithe- 

And the whetting of the scythe ; 

Let this be, lest shut and furled 

From the well-beloved world, 

I forget her yearnings old. 

And her ti-oubles manifold, 

Strivings sore, submissions meet, 

And my pulse no longer beat. 

Keeping time and bearing part 

With the pulse of her great he^n, 

" So ; swing open door, and shade 
Take me ; I am not afraid, 
For the time will not be long ; 
Soon I shall have waxen strong — 
Strong enough my own to win 
From the ofave it lies wi !iin.' 



110 A DEAD YEAR 

Ami I entered. On her bier 
Quiet lay the buried year ; 
I sat down where I could see 
Life without and sunshine free, 
Death within. And I between, 
Waited my own heart to wean 
From the shroud that shaded her 
In the rock-hewn sepulchre — 
Waited till the dead should say, 
" Heart, be free of me this day " — 
Waited with a patient will — 

And I WAIT BETWEKN THEM STILL. 

I take the year back to my life and story, 
The dead year, and say, " I will share in thy tomb. 

' All the kinoes of the nations lie in glory ; ' 
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom I 
They reigned in their lifetime with sce{)tre and diadem, 

But thou excellest them ; 
For life doth nnike thy grave her oratory, 

And the crown is still on thy brow ; 
'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' 
And so dost thou." 






REFLECTIONS. 



LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A I'OOL IN A KIKU). 

j,pv/IIAT change has made the pastures swett 
^ Aud reached the daisies at my ted. 
And cloud that wears a goldcu hera ? 
This lovely world, the hills, the sward — 
They all look fresh, as if our Lord 
But yesterday had finished them. 

And here's the field witli light aglow ; 
How fi-esh its boundary lime-trees show, 

And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! 
lie t ween their tnmks come through to me 
'i'he morning sparkles of the sea 

PjcIow the level browsing line 

I see the pool more clear by half 
Than pools where other waters laugh 
Up at the breasts of coot and rail. 



112 REFLECTIONS. 

Tliere, as she passed it on her way, 
I saw reflected yesterday 

A maiden with a milking-pail. 

Tliere, neither slowly nor iii haste, 
One hand upon her slender waist, 

The other lifted to her pail, 
She, rosy In the morning light, 
Among the water-daisies white. 

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. 

Against her ankles as she trod 
The lucky buttercups did nod. 

I leaned upon the gate to see : 
The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; 
A dimple came in either cheek, 

And all my heart was gone tVora me. 

Then, as I lingered on the gate, 
And she came up like coming fate, 

I saw my picture in her eyes — 
Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes. 
Cheeks like the mountain pink, tliat grows 

Among white-headed majesties. 

I said, " A tale was made of old 
That I would fain to thee unfold ; 

Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." 
But high she held her comely head ; 



REFLECTIONS 113 

" 1 cannot heed it now," she said, 
" For carrying of the milking-pail." 

She laughed. Wliat good to make ado ? 
I held the gate, and she came through, 

And took her homeward path anon. 
From the clear pool her face had fled ; 
It rested on my heart instead, 

Reflected when the maid was gone. 

With happy youth, and work content, 
So sweet and stately on she went, 

Right careless of the untold tale. 
Each step she took I loved her more, 
And followed to her dairy door 

The maiden with the milking-pail. 

II. 
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk. 
How fine, how blest a thing is work ! 

For work does good when reasons fail — 
Good ; yet the axe at every stroke 
The echo of a name awoke — 

Her name is Mary Martindale. 

I'm glad that echo was not heard 
Aright by other men : a bird 

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; 
And 1 know not, but I can say 

VOL. I. — 8 



114 REFLECTIONS. 

I felt as shame-faced all tliat clay 

As if folks heard her name right well. 

And when the west began to glow 
I went — I could not choose but go — 

To that same dairy on the hill ; 
And while sweet Mary moved about 
Within, I came to her without, 

And leaned upon the window-sill. 

The garden border where I stood 

"Was sweet with pinks and southernwood, 

I spoke — her answer seemed to fail : 
I smelt the pinks — I could not see ; 
The dusk came down and sheltered me, 

And in the dusk she heard my tale. 

And what is left that I should tell ? 
I begged a kiss, I pleaded well : 

The rosebud lips did long decline ; 
But yet I think, I thhik 'tis true, 
That, leaned at last into the dew, 

One little instant they were mine. 

O life ! liow dear thou hast become : 
She laughed at dawn and I was dumb, 

But evening counsels best prevail. 
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, 
Green be the pastures where she treads, 

The maiden with the milkintr-pail ! 



THE LETTER L. 



ABSENT. 



'E sat on grassy slopes that meet 

With sudden dip the level strand ; 
The trees hung overhead — our feet 
Were on the sand. 

Two silent girls, a thoughtful man, 

We sunned o'TSclves in open light, 
And felt such April airs as fan 
The Isle of Wight; 

And smelt the wall-flower in the crag 

Whereon that dauity waft had fed, 

Which made the bell-lumg cowslip wag 

Her delicate head ; 

And let alighting jackdaws fleet 

Adown it open- winged, and pass 
Till they could touch Avith outstretched feet 
The warmed jirass. 



116 THE LETTER L. 

Tlie hap})y wave i-an up and rang 

Like service bells a long way off, 
And down a little freshet sprang 
From mossy trough, 

And splashed into a rain of spray, 

And fretted on with daylight's loss, 
Because so many bluebells lay 
Leaning across. 

Blue martins gossiped in the sun, 

And pairs of chattering daws flew by, 
And sailing brigs rocked softly on 
In company. 

Wild cherry-boughs above us spread, 

The whitest shade was ever seen. 
And flicker, flicker, came and fled 
Sun spots between. 

Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom. 

As babes will sigh for deep content 
When their sweet hearts for peace make room, 
As given, not lent. 

And we saw on : we said no word. 

And one was lost in musings rare. 
One buoyant as the waft that stirred 
Her shinuig hair. 



THE LETTER L. 117 

His eyeb were bent upon the sand, 

Unfathomed deeps within thum hiy. 
A slender rod was in his hand — 
A hazel spray. 

Her eyes were resting on his face, 

As shyly glad, by stealth to glean 
Impressions of his manly grace 
And guarded mien ; 

The mouth with steady sweetness set, 

And eyes conveying unaware 
The distant huit of some regret 
That harbored there. 

She gazed, and in the tender flush 

That made her face like roses blown, 
And in the radiance and the hush, 
Her thought was shown. 

It was a happy thmg to sit 

So near, nor mar his reverie ; 
She looked not for a part in it. 
So meek was she. 

But it was solace for her eyes, 

And for her heart, that yearned to him, 
To watch apart in loving wise 
Those musings dim. 



118 THE LETTER L. 

Lost — lost, and gone ! The Pelham wooda 

Were full of doves that cooed at ease ; 
The orchis filled her purple hoods 
For daiuty bees. 

He heard not ; all the delicate air 

Was fresh with falling water-spray : 
It mattered not — he was not there, 
But far away. 

Till with the hazel in his hand, 

Still drowned in thought it thus befell ; 
He drew a letter on the sand — 
The letter L. 

And looking on it, straight there wrought 

A ruddy flush about his brow ; 
His letter woke him : absent thought 
Rushed homeward now. 

And half-abashed, his hasty touch 
Effaced it with a tell-tale care. 
As if his action had been much, 
And not his air. 

And she ? she watched his open palm 

Smooth out the letter from the sand, 
And rose, with aspect almost calm. 
And filled her hand 



THE LETTER L. 119 

With cherry-bloom, and moved away 

To gather wild forget-rae-not, 
And let her errant footstejis stray 
To one sweet spot, 

As if she coveted the fair 

Wliite Iming of the silver-weed, 
And cuckoo-pint that shaded there 
Empurpled seed. 

She had not feared, as I divine, 

Because she had not hoped. Alaa ! 
The sorrow of it ! for that sign 
Came but to pass ; 

And yet it robbed her of the right 

To give, who looked not to receive, 
And made her blush in love's despite 
That she should grieve. 

A shape in white, she turned to gaze ; 

Her eyes were shaded with lier hand, 
And half-way up the winduig ways 
We saw her stand. 

Green hollows of the fringed cliff, 

Red rocks that under waters show. 
Blue reaches, and a sailing skiff. 
Were spread below. 



120 THE LETTER L. 

She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, 

Perhaps to think ; but who can tell 
How heavy on her heart must lie 
The letter L I 



She came anon with quiet grace ; 

And " What," she murmured, " silent yet ! 
He answei-ed, " 'Tis a haunted place, 
And spell-beset. 

" O speak to us, and break the spell ! " 

" The spell is broken," she replied. 
" T crossed the running brook, it fell, 
It could not bide. 

"And I have brought a budding world. 

Of oi'chis spires and daisies rank. 
And ferny plumes but half uncurled, 
From yonder bank ; 

"And I shall weave of them a crown, 
And at the well-head launch it free, 
That so the brook may float it down, 
And out to sea. 



THE LETTER L. 121 

*' There may it to some English hands 

From fairy meadow seem to come ; 
The fairyest of fairy lands — 
The land of home." 



•' Weave on," he said, and as she wove 

We told how currents in the deep, 
With branches from a lemon grove, 
Blue bergs will sweep. 

And messages from shipwrecked folk 

Will navigate the moon-led main, 

A.nd painted boards of splintered oak 

Their port regain. 

llien floated out by vagrant thought, 

IMy soul beheld on torrid sand 
Tlie wasteful water set at nought 
INIan's skilful hand, 

And suck out gold-dust from the box, 

And wash it down in weedy whirls. 
And split the wine-keg on the rocks. 
And lose the pearls. 

"Ah ! why to that which needs it not," 

Methought, " should costly things be given 
How much is wasted, -wrecked, forgot. 
On this side heaven ! " 



122 THE LETTER L. 

So musing, did mine ears awake 

To maiden tones of sweet reserve, 
And manly speech that seemed to make 
The steady curve 

Of lips that uttered it defer 

Their guard, and soften for the thought : 
She listened, and his talk with her 
Was fancy fraught. 

" There is not much in liberty " — 
With doubtful pauses he began ; 
And said to her and said to me, 
" There was a man — 

" There was a man who dreamed one night 

That his dead father came to him ; 

And said, when fire was low, and light 

Was burning dim — 

" ' Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride, 
Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam ? 
Sure home is best ! ' The son replied, 
' I have no home.' 

" * Shall not I speak ? ' his father said, 
* Who early chose a youthful wife. 
And worked for her, and with her led 
My happy life. 



THE LETTER L. 123 

" ' Ay, I will speak, for I was young 
As thou art now, when I did hold 
The prattling sweetness of thy tongue 
Dearer than gold ; 

" ' And rosy from thy noonday sleep 
Would bear thee to admiring kin, 
And all thy pretty looks would keep 
My heart within. 

* ' Then after, mid thy young allies — 
For thee ambition flushed my brow — 
I coveted the school-boy prize 
Far more than thou. 

« ' I thought for thee, I thought for all 

My gamesome imps that round me grew i 
The dews of blessing heaviest fall 
Where care falls too. 

** ' And I that sent my boys away. 

In youthful strength to earn their bread. 
And died before the hair was gray 
Upon my head — 

" ' I say to thee, though free from care, 
A lonely lot, an aimless life. 
The crowning comfort is not there — 
Son, take a wife.' 



124 THE LETTER L. 

" ' Father beloved,' the son replied, 
And failed to gather to his breast, 
With arms in darkness searching wide, 
The formless guest. 

" ' I am but free, as sorrow is. 

To dry her tears, to laugh, to talk ; 
And free, as sick men are, I wis 
To rise and walk. 

" * And free, as poor men are, to buy 

If they have nought wherewith to pay ; 
Nor hope, the debt before they die, 
To wipe away. 

" ' What 'vails it there are wives to win, 
And faithful hearts for those to yearn, 
Wlio find not aught thereto akin 
To make return ? 

" * Shall he take much who little gives, 
And dwells in spirit far away, 
When she that in his presence lives 
Doth never stray, 

" ' But waking, guideth as beseems 
The happy house in order trim, 
And tends her babes ; and sleeping, dreams 
Of them and him ? 



THE LETTER L. 125 

** ' O base, cold,' " — while thus he spake 
The dream broke off, the vision fled ; 
He carried on his speech awake 
And sighing said — 

" ' I had — ah happy man ! — I had 
A precious jewel in my breast, 
And while I kept it I was glad 
At work, at rest ! 

" * Call it a heart, and call it strong 
As upward stroke of eagle's wing ; 
Then call it weak, you shall not wrong 
The beating thing. 

" ' In tangles of the jungle reod. 

Whose heats are lit with tiger eyes, 
In shipwreck drifting with the weed 
'Neath rainy skies, 

*** Still youthful manhood, fresh and keen, 
At danger gazed with awed delight 
As if sea would not drown, I ween. 
Nor serpent bite. 

" ' I had — ah happy ! but 'tis gone, 
The pnceless jewel ; one came by, 
And saw and stood awhile to con 
"With curious eye, 



126 THE LETTER L. 

" ' And wished for it, and faintly smiled 
From under lashes black as doom, 
With subtle sweetness, tender, mild, 
That did illume 

" ' The perfect face, and shed on it 

A charm, half feeling, half surprise, 
And brim with dreams the exquisite 
Brown blessed eyes. 

" ' Was it for this, no more but this, 
I took and laid it in her hand, 
By dimples niled, to hint submiss, 
By frown unmanned ? 

" ' It was for this — and O farewell 
The fearless foot, the present mind. 
And steady will to breast the swell 
And face the wind ! 

" * I gave the jewel from my breast, 
She played with it a little w^hile 
As I sailed down into the west. 
Fed by her smile ; 

" * Then weary of it — far fi-om land, 

With sigh as deep as destiny. 

She let it di-op from her fair hand 

Into the sea. 



THE LETTER L. 127 

" 'Aiifl watclied it sink ; and I — and I, — 
Wliat shall I do, for all is vain ? 
No wave will bring, no gold will bny, 
No toil attain ; 

" * Nor any diver reach to raise 
My jewel from the blue abyss ; 
Or could they, still I should but praise 
Their work amiss. 

*♦ * Thrown, thrown away ! But I love yet 
The fair, fair hand which did the deed : 
That wayward sweetness to forget 
Were bitter meed. 

** ' No, let it lie, and let the wave 
Roll over it for evermore ; 
"Whelmed where the sailor hath his grave — 
The sea her store. 

** * My heart, my sometime happy lieart ! 
And for once let me coraplaiu, 
I must forego life's better part — 
Man's dearer gain. 

**• I worked afar that 1 might rear 
A peaceful home on English soil ; 
1 labored for the gold and gear — 
I loved my toil. 



128 THE LETTER L. 

" ' Forever in my spirit spake 

Tlie natural whisper, " Well 'twill be 
When loving wife and children break 
Their bread with thee ! " 

" ' The gathered gold is turned to dross, 
The wife hath faded into air, 
My heart is thrown away, my loss 
I cannot spare. 

*' * Not spare unsated thought her food — 
No, not one rustle of the fold, 
Nor scent of eastern sandal-wood, 
Nor gleam of gold ; 

" ' Nor quaint devices of the shawl, 
Far less the drooping lashes meek ; 
The gracious figure, lithe and tall, 
The dimpled cheek ; 

" 'And all the wonders of her eyes, 
And sweet caprices of her air. 
Albeit, indignant reason cries, 
Fool ! have a care. 

" ' Fool ! joui not madness to mistake ; 

Thou knowest she loved thee not a whit : 
Only that she thy heart might break — 
She wanted it, 



THE LETTER L. 12y 

"• ' Only the conquered thing to chain 
So fast that none might set it free, 
Nor other woman there might reign 
And comfort thee. 

" ' Robbed, robbed of life's illusions sweet ; 
Love dead outside her closed door. 
And passion fainting at her feet 
To wake no more; 

" ' What canst thou give that unknown bride 
Whom thou didst work for in the waste, 
Ere fated love was born, and cried — 
Was dead, ungraced ? 

" * No more but this, the partial care, 
The natural kindness for its own, 
The trust that waxeth unaware. 
As worth is known ; 

" ' Observance, and complacent thought 
Indulgent, and the honor due 
That many another man has brought 
Who brought love too. 

" ' Nay, then, forbid it Heaven ! ' he said, 
' The saintly vision fades from me ; 
O bands and chains ! I cannot wed — 
J am not free.' " 

VOL. 1. — 9 



130 



THE LETTER L. 

With that he raised his face to view : 

" What think you," asking, " of my tale ? 
And was he right to let the dew 
Of morn exliale, 

"And burdened in the noontide sun, . 

The grateful shade of home forego — 
Could he be right — I ask as one 
Who fam would know ? " 

He spoke to her and spoke to me ; 

The rebel rose-hue dyed her cheek ; 
The woven crown lay on her knee ; 
She would not speak. 

And I with doubtful pause — averse 

To let occasion drift away — 
I answered — " If his case were worse 
Than word can say, 

" Time is a healer of sick hearts. 

And women have been known to choose, 
With purpose to allay their smarts. 
And tend their bruise, 

"■Tiiese for tliemselves. Content to give, 

In their own lavish love complete, 
Tukuig for sole prerogative 

Their tendanuc sweet. 



THE LETTER L. 131 

" Such meeting \n their diadem 

Of crowning love's ethereal fire, 

Himself he robs who robbeth them 

Of their desire. 

** Therefore the man who, dreaming, cried 

Against his lot that even-song, 
I judge him honest, and decide 
That he was wrong." 

•* When I am judged, ah may my fate," 
He whispered, " in thy code be read ! 
Be thou both judge and advocate." 
Then turned, he said — 

" Fair weaver ! " touching, while he spoke, 

The woven crown, the weaving hand, 
" And do you this decree revoke. 
Or may it stand ? 

" This friend, you ever think her right — 

She is not wrong, then ? " Soft and low 
The little trembling word took flight : 
She answered, " No." 



132 THE LETTER 2.. 



PRESENT. 

A meadow where the grass was deep, 

Rich, square, and golden to the view, 
A belt of elms with level sweep 
About it grew. 

The sun beat down on it, the line 

Of shade was clear beneath the trees : 
There, by a clustering eglantine. 
We sat at ease. 

And O the buttercups ! that field 

O' the cloth of gold, where pennons swam 
Where France set up his lilied shield, 
His oriflamb. 

And Henry's lion-standard rolled : 

What was it to their matchless sheen. 
Their million million drops of gold 
Among the green ! 

We sat at ease in peaceful trust, 

For he had written, " Let us meet ; 
My wife grew tired oi' smoke and dust, 
And London heat, 



THE LETTER L. 133 

•^ And I have found a quiet grange, 

Set back in meadows sloping west, 
And there our Httle ones can range 
And she can rest. 

" Come down, that we may show the view, 

And she may hear your voice again, 
And talk her woman's talk with you 
Along the lane." 

Since he had drawn with listless hand 
The letter, six long years had fled, 
And whuls had blown about the sand. 
And they were wed. 

Two rosy urchins near him played, 

Or watched, entranced, the shapely ships 
That with his knife for them he made 
Of elder slips. 

And where the flowers were thickest shed, 

Each blossom like a burnished gem, 
A creeping baby reared its head. 
And cooed at them. 

And calm was on the father's face. 

And love was in the mother's eyes ; 
She looked and listened from her place, 
In tender wise. 



134 THE LETTER L. 

She did not need to raise her voice 

That they might hear, she sat so nigh ; 
Yet we could speak when 'twas our choice, 
And soft reply. 

Holding our quiet talk apart 

Of household thhigs ; till, all unsealed, 
The guarded outworks of the heart 
Began to yield ; 

And much that prudence will not dip 

The pen to fix and send away. 
Passed safely over from the lip 
That summer day. 

" I should be happy," with a look 

Towards her husband where he lay, 
Lost in the pages of his book. 
Soft did she say. 

" I am, and yet no lot below 

For one whole day eludeth care ; 
To marriage all the stories flow. 
And finish there : 

" As if with marriage came the end, 

The entrance into settled rest, 
The calm to which love's tossings tend, 
The quiet breast. 



THE LETTER L 135 

" For me love played the low preludes. 

Yet life began but with the ring, 
Such infinite solicitudes 

Around it cling. 

" 1 did not for my heart divine 

Pier destiny so meek to grow ; 
The higher nature matched with mine 
Will have it so. 

" Still I consider it, and still 

Acknowledge it my master made, 
Above me by the steadier will 
Of nought afraid. 

"Above me by the candid speech ; 

The temperate judgment of its own ; 
Tlie keener thoughts that grasp and reach 
At things unknown. 

" Hut I look up and he looks down, 

And thus our married eyes can meet ; 
Unclouded his, and clear of frown. 
And gi-avely sweet. 

"And yet, O good, O wise and true I 

1 would for all my fealty, 
That I could be as much to you 
As you to me ; 



136 



THE LETTER L. 

"And knew the deep secure content 

Of wives who have been hardly won. 
And, long petitioned, gave assent, 
Jealous of none. 

" But proudly sure in all the earth 
No other in that homage shares, 
Nor other woman's face or worth 
Ts prized as theirs." 

1 said : "And yet no lot below 

For one whole day eludeth care. 
Your thought." She answered, " Even so. 
I would beware 

'* Regretful questionings ; be sure 
That very seldom do they rise, 
Nor for myself do I endure — 
I sympathize. 

" For once " — she turned away her head, 
Across the grass she swept her hand — 
" There was a letter once," she said, 
" Upon the sand." 

" There was, in truth, a letter wnt 

On sand," I said, " and swept from view ; 
But that same hand which fashioned it 
Is given to you. 



rHE LETTER L. 137 

•* Efface the letter ; wherefore keep 

An image which the sands forego ? " 
♦'Albeit that fear had seemed to sleep,*' 
She answered low, 

" I could not choose but wake it now ; 

For do but turn aside your face, 
A house on yonder hilly brow 
Your eyes may trace. 

" The chestnut shelters it ; ah me. 

That I should have so foint a heart ! 
But yester-eve, as by the sea 
I sat apart, 

" I heard a name, I saw a hand 

Of passing stranger point that way — 
And will he meet her on the strand, 
"When late we stray ? 

" For she is come, foi- she is there, 
I heard it in the dusk, and heard 
Admiring words, that named her fair, 
But little stirred 

♦' By beauty of the wood and wave, 
And weary of an old man's sway ; 
For it was sweeter to enslave 
Than to obey." 



138 THE LETTER L. 

— The voice of one that near us stood, 

The rustle of a silken fold, 
A sceut of eastern sandalwood, 
A gleam of gold ! 

A lady ! In the narrow space 

Between the husband and the wife, 
But nearest him — she showed a face 
With dangers rife ; 

A subtle smile that dimpling Hed, 

As night-black lashes rose and fell : 
I looked, and to myself I said, 
" The letter L." 

He, too, looked up, and with arrest 

Of breath and motion held his gaze, 
Nor cared to hide within his breast 
His deep amaze ; 

Nor spoke till on her near advance 

His dark cheek flushed a ruddier hue ; 
And with his change of countenance 
Hers altered too. 

" Lenore ! " his voice was like the cry 

Of one entreating ; and he said 
But that — then paused with such a sigh 
As mourns the dead. 



THE LETTER L. 139 

And seated near, with no demur 

Of bashful doubt she silence broke, 
Though I alone could answer her 
When first she spoke. 

She looked : her eyes Avere beauty's own ; 

She shed their sweetness into his ; 
Nor spared the married wife one moan 
That bitterest is. 

She spoke, and lo,her loveliness 

Mcthought she damaged with her tongue ; 
And every sentence made it less, 
All falsely rung. 

The rallying voice, the light demand, 

Half flippant, half unsatisfied ; 
The vanity sincere and bland — 
The answers wide. 

And now her talk was of the East, 

And next her talk was of the sea ; 
" And has the love for it increased 
You shared with me ? " 

He answered net, but grave and still 

With earnest eyes her face perused, 
And locked his lips with steady will. 
As one that mused — 



140 THE LETTER L. 

That mused and wondered. Why his gaze 

Sliould dwell on her, methought, was plain ; 
But reason that should wonder raise 
I sought in vain. 

And near and neai* the children drew, 

Attracted by her rich array, 
And gems that trembling into view 
Like raindrops lay. 

He spoke : the wife her baby took 

And pressed the little face to hers ; 
What pain soe'er her bosom shook. 
What jealous stirs 

Might stab her heart, slie bid them so, 

The cooing babe a veil supplied ; 

And if she listened none might know, 

Or if she sighed ; 

Or if forecasting grief and care 

Unconscious solace thence she drew, 
And lulled her babe, and unawai-e 
Lulled sorrow too. 

The lady, she interpreter 

For looks or language wanted none, 
If yet dominion stayed with her — 
So lightly won ; 



THE LETTLR L. 141 

K yet the heart she wounded sore 

Could yearn to her, and let her see 
The homage that was evermore 
Disloyalty ; 

If sign would yield that it had bled, 
Or rallied from the faithless blow, 
Or sick or sullen stooped to wed, 
She craved to know. 

Now dreamy deep, now sweetly keen, 

Her asking eyes would round him shine ; 
But guarded lips and settled mien 
Refused the sign. 

And unbeguiled and unbetrayed, 

The wonder yet within his breast, 
It seemed a watchful part lie played 
Agahist her quest. 

Until with accent of regret 

She touched upon the past once more, 
As if she dared him to forget 
His dream of yoi"e. 

And words of little weight let fall 

The fancy of the lower mind ; 
ilow waxing life must needs leave all 
Its best behind ; 



142 I^H^ LETTER L. 

How he had said that " he would fain 
(One morning on the halcyon sea) 
That life would at a stand remain 
Eternally ; 

" And sails be mirrored in the deep, 
As then they were, for evermore, 
And happy spirits wake and sleep 
Afar from shore : 

" The well-contented heart be fed 
Ever as then, and all the world 
(It were not small) unshadowed 
Wlien sails were furled. 

" Your words " — a pause, and quietly 

With touch of calm self-ridicule : 
"It may be so — for then," said he, 
" I was a fool." 

With that he took his book, and left 
An awkward silence to my care, 
That soon I filled with questions deft 
And debonair ; 

And slid into an easy vein, 

The favorite picture of the year ; 

The grouse upon her lord's domain — 

The salmon weir ; 



THE LETTER L. 143 

Till she could fain a sudden thought 

Upon neglected guests, and rise, 
And make us her adieux, with nought 
In her dark eyes 

Acknowledging or shame or pain ; 
But just unveiling for our view 
A little smile of still disdain 
As she withdrew. 

Then nearer did the sunshine creep, 

And warmer came the wafting breeze ; 
The little babe was fast asleep 
On mother's knees. 

Fair was the face that o'er it leant. 

The cheeks with beauteous blushes dyed ; 
Tlie downcast lashes, shyly bent, 
That failed to hide 

Some tender shame. She did not see ; 
She felt his eyes that would not stir, 
She looked upon her babe, and he 
So looked at her. 

So grave, so wonilering, so content. 

As one new waked to conscious life, 
Whose sudden joy with fear is blent, 

lie said, " My wife." 



144 THE LETTER L. 

" My wife, how beautiful you are ! " 
Then closer at her side reclined, 
" The bold brown woman from afar 
Comes, to me blind. 

"And by comparison, I see 

The majesty of matron grace, 
And learn how pure, how fair can be 
My own wife's face : 

" Pure with all faithful passion, fair 

With tender smiles that come and go ; 
And comforting as April air 
After the snow. 

" Fool that I was ! my spirit frets 

And marvels at the humbling truth, 
That I have deigned to spend regrets 
On my bruised youth. 

" Its idol mocked thee, seated nigh, 

And shamed me for the mad mistake 
1 thank my God he could deny. 
And she forsake. 

" Ah, who am I, that God hath saved 
Me from the doom I did desire, 
And crossed the lot myself had craved, 
To set me higher? 



THE LETTER L. 145 

" What have I done that He should bow 
From heaven to choose a wife for me ? 
And what deserved, He should endow 
My home with thick? 

" My wife I " "With that she turned her face 

To kiss the hand abont her neck ; 
And I went down and sought the place 
Where leaped the beck — 

The busy beck, that still would run 

And fall, and falter its refrain ; 

And pause and sliimmer in the sun, 

And fall again. 

It led me to the sandy shore, 

We sang together, it and I — 
" The daylight comes, the dark is o'er, 
The shadows fly." 

I lost it on the sandy shore, 

" O wife ! " its latest muimurs felL, 
" O wife, be glad, and fear no more 
The letter L." 

VOL. I. — 10 



HE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LIN- 
COLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

HE old mayor climbed the belfry lower, 

The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells, 

Play uppe ' The IJrides of P^nderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Loi-d that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall : 

And there was nought of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied 

By millions ci'ouched on the old sea wall. 

r sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myna eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 



THE HIGH TIDE. 147 

And dark against day's golden death 
She moved where Liiidis wandereth, 
My Sonne's fairs wite, Elizabeth. 

•' Cusha 1 Ciislui ! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away 1 heard her song. 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, lioweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
Leave your meadow gi-asses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, ay, long ago. 

When 1 beginne to think howe long, 



148 THE HIGH TIDE. 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
And all the aire, it seemeth raee, 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where full fyve good miles away 
The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

AVas heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds where tlieir sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath. 
The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the gi-assy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppc into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

Aiid where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, " And why should this tiling be .'' 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 

They ring tlie tune of Enderby ! 



THE HIGH TIDE. 149 

" For (jvil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' ? " 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang agam, 

« Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea wall (he ci-ied) is dowiie. 

The rising tide comes on apace. 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God savti you, mother ! '' straight he saith ; 
" Where is my wife, PLlizabeth ? " 

" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
^\'ith her two bairns I mai'ked her long ; 

And ere yon bells begaime to j)lay 
Afar I heard her milking sung." 

He looked across the grassy lea, 



150 THE HIGH TIDE. 

To right, to left, " Ho Enderby ! " 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For, lo ! along tlie river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre's Iireasl 

Flung uppe her weltei-ing walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat, 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate tliat night. 
The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 



THE HIGH TIDE. 151 

J marked the lofty bcacou light 

Stream from tlie church tower, r(!d and high — 
A lurid mark and dread to see ; 
And awsome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang tlie sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" come in life, or come in death ! 

lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty baims in fiist embrace, 
The lifted sim shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks aljout the gi'ass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 



152 I'HE HIGH TIDE. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
" Cusha! Cusha! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
" Cusha! Cusha ! " all along 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow gi-asses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot 
Quit your pipes of pai-slcy liollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking phccl." 




AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

"UE parson's brothkh, sister, and two childri 

Preface. 

IIAT wonder man should fail to stay 
A nursling wafted from above, 
The growth celestial come astray, 
That tender growth whose name is Love ! 

It is as if high winds in heaven 

Had shaken the celestial trees. 
And to tliis earth below had given 

Some feathered seeds from one of these. 

perfect love that 'dureth long ! 

Dear growth, that. shaded by the paling, 
And bi-eathed on by the angel's song, 

Blooms on in heaven's eternal calms ! 

How great ilie task to guard thee here. 

Where wind is rough and frost is keen. 
And all the ground with doubt and fear 

la checkered, birth and death between I 



154 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGt. 

Space is against thee — it can part ; 

Time is against tliee — it can chill ; 
Words — they but render half the heart ; 

Deeds — they are poor to our rich will. 



31erton. Though she had loved me, I had never bound 
Her beauty to my darkness ; that had been 
Too hard for her. Sadder to look so near 
Into a face all shadow, than to stand 
Aloof, and then withdraw, and afterwards 
Suffer forgetfulness to comfort her. 
I think so, and I loved her ; therefore I 
Have no complaint ; albeit she is not mine : 
And yet — and yet, withdrawing I would fain 
She -would have pleaded duty — would have said 
" My father wills it " ; would have turned away, 
As lingering, or unwillingly ; for then 
She would have done no damage to the past : 
Now she has roughly used it — flung it down 
And binished its bloom away. If she had said, 
" Sir, I have promised ; therefore, lo ! my hand " — 
Would I have taken it ? Ah no ! by all 
IMost sacred, no ! 

I would for ray sole share 
Have taken first her recollected blush 
The day I won her ; next her shining tears — 
Tlic tears of our long parting ; and for all 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 155 

The rest — her cry, her bitter heart-sick cry, 

That day or niglit (I know not which it was, 

The days being always night), that darkest night. 

When being led to her I heard her cry, 

" O blind ! blind ! blind ! " 

Go with thy chosen mate: 

The fashion of thy going nearly cured 

The sorrow of it. I am yet so weak 

That half my thoughts go after thee ; l)ut uot 

So weak that I desire to have it so. 

Jessie, seated at the piano, singti. 

When the dimpled water slippeth, 

Full of lauglitor,on its way, 
And her wing the wagtail dippetli, 

Kunning by the brink at play ; 
When the poplar leaves atremble 

Turn their edges to the Hght, 
And the far-up clouds resemble 

Veils of gauze most clear and white ; 
And the sunbeams fall and flatter 

Woodland moss and branches brown. 
And the glossy finches chatter 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the heart be not attending. 

Having music of her own. 
On the grass, through meadows wending. 

It is sweet to walk alone. 

When the falling waters utter 

Something mournful on their way, 
And (k-pMiting swallows flutter. 



156 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Taking leave of bank and brae ; 
When the chaffinch idly sitteth 

With her mate upon tlie sheaves, 
And the wistful robin flitteth 

Over beds of yellow leaves ; 
When the clouds, like ghosts that ponder 

Evil fate, float by and frown, 
And the listless wind doth wander 

Up and down, up and down : 
Though the iieart be not attending. 

Having sorrows of her own, 
Through the fields and fallows wending, 

It is sad to walk alone. 

Merton. Blind ! blind ! blind ! 
Oh ! sitting in the dark for evermore, 
And doing nothing — putting out a hand 
To feel what lies about me, and to say 
Not " This is blue or red," but " This is cold, 
And this the sun is shining on, and tliis 
I know not till they tell its name to me." 

that I might behold once more my God ! 
The shining rulers of the night and day ; 
Or a star twinkling ; or an almond-tiee, 
Pink with her blossom and alive with bees, 
Standing against the azure ! O my sight ! 
Lost, and yet living in the sunlit cells 
Of memory — that only lightsome place 
Wliere Imgers yet the dayspruig of my youth ; 
The years of mourning for thy death are long. 



AhTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 157 

Be kind, sweet memory ! desert me not ! 

For oft thou show'st me lucent opal seas, 

Fringed with their cocoa-palms and dwarf red craj^s, 

Whereon the placid moon doth " rest her chin '" , 

For oft by favor of thy visitings 

I feel the dimness of an Indian night, 

And lo ! the sun is coming. Red as rust 

Between the latticed blind his presence bums, 

A ruby ladder running up the wall ; 

And all the dust, printed with pigeons' feet. 

Is reddened, and the crows that stalk anear 

Begin to trail for heat tlieir glossy wings, 

And the red flowers give back at once the dew , 

For night is gone, and day is born so fast, 

And is so strong, that, huddled as in flight, 

The fleeting darkness paleth to a shade. 

And while she calls to sleep and dreams " Come on," 

Suddeidy waked, the sleepers rub their eyes. 

Which having opened, lo ! she is no more. 

misery and mourning ! I have felt — 
Yes, I have felt like some deserted world 
That God had done with, and had cast aside 
To rock and stagger through the gulfs of space. 
Me never looking on it any more — 
Llntilled, no use, no pleasure, not desired, 
Nor lighted on by angels in their flight 
From heaven to happier planets, and the race 
That once liad dwelt on it witluliawn or dead 



158 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Could such a world have hope that some blest day 
God would remember her, and fashion her 
Anew ? 

Jessie. What, dearest ? Did you speak to me ? 

Child. T think he spoke to us. 

M. No, little elves, 

Yon were so quiet that I half forgot 
Your neighborhood. What are you doing there ? 

/. They sit together on the window-mat 
Nursing their dolls. 

O. Y'es, Uncie, our new dolls — 

Our best dolls, that you gave us. 

M. Did you say 

The afternoon was bright ? 

/. Y'es, bright indeed ! 

The sun is on the plane-tree, and it flames 
All red and orange. 

C. 1 can see my father — 

Look ! look ! the leaves are falling on his gown. 

M. Where? 

C In the churchyard. Uncle — he is gone ; 

He passed behind the tower. 

M. I heard a bell : 

There is a funeral, then, behind the church. 

2(1 Child. Are tlie trees sorry when their leaves drop 
off? 

\st Child. You talk such silly words ; — no, not at alL 
There goes another leaf. 

2d Child. I did not see. 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 159 

\st Child. Look ! on the grass, between the little hills, 
Just where they planted Amy. 

/. Amy died — • 

Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her, 
Say, she is gone to heaven. 

2d Child. They planted her — 

Will she come up next year ? 

\st Child. No, not so soon ; 

But some day God will call her to come up. 
And then she will. Papa knows everything — 
He said she would before he planted her. 

2d Child. It was at night she went to heaven. La3t 
night 
We saw a star before we went to bed. 

\st Child. Yes, Uncle, did you know ? A large bright 
star. 
And at her side she had some little ones — 
Some young ones. 

M. Young ones ! no, my little maid, 

Tliose stars are very old. 

\st Child. What ! all of them ? 

M. Yes. 

\st Child. Older than our father ? 

M. Older, far. 

'id Child. They must be tired of shining there so 
long. 
Perhaps they wish they might come down. 

/. Perhaps I 

Dear children, talk of what you linderstand. 



IGO AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

Come, I must lift the trailing creepers up 
That last night's wind has loosened. 

1st Child. May we help? 

Aunt, may we help to nail them ? 

/. We shall see. 

Go, find and bring the hammer, and some shreds. 

\_Steps outside the window, lifts a branch, and sings."] 
Should I change my allegiance for rancor 

If fortune changes her side ? 
Or should I, like a vessel at anchor, 

Turn with the turn of the tide ? 
Lift! O lift, thou lowering sky ; 

An thou wilt,thy gloom forego ! 
An thou wilt not, he and I 
Need not part for drifts of snow. 

31. [^within'] Lift ! no, thou lowering sky, thou wilt not 
lift — 
Thy motto readeth, " Never." 

Children. Here they are ! 

Here are the nails ! and may we help ? 

J. You shall, 

If I should want help. 

1st Child, Will you want it, then? 

Please want it — we like nailing. 

2d Child. Yes, we do. 

/. It seems I ought to want it : hold the bough, 
And each may nail in turn. 

[Sings.-j 
Like a daisy I was, near him growing : 
Must I move because favors flag, 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 161 

And be like a brown wall-flower blowing 

Far out of reacli in a crag? 
Lift! lift;thou lowering sky; 

An thou canst, thy blue regain ! 
An thou canst not, lie and I 

Need not part for drops of rain. 

\st Child. Now, have we nailed enough ? 

J. [trains the creepers'] Yes, you may go ; 
But do not play too near the churchyard path. 

M. [within] Even misfortune does not strike so near 
As my dependence. 0, in youth and strength 
To sit a timid coward in the dark, 
And feel before I set a cautious step ! 
It is so very dark, so far more dark 
Than any night that day comes after — night 
In which there would be stars, or else at least 
'i'he silvered portion of a sombre cloud 
Through which the moon is plunging. 

/. [entering/'] ]\Ierton ! 

jU. Yes. 

J. Dear Merton, did you know that I could hear ? 

M. No : e'en my solitude is not mine now, 
And if I be alone is ofttiraes doubt. 
Alas ! far more than eyesight have I lost ; 
For manly courage drifteth after it — 
E'en as a splintered spar would drift away 
From some dismasted wreck. Hear, I complain — 
Like a weak ailing woman I complain. 

/. For the first time. 

VOL. I. — 11 



162 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

M. 1 cannot bear the dark. 

J, My brother ! you do bear it — bear it well — 
Have borne it twelve long months, and not complained, 
Comfort your heart mth music : all the air 
is warm with sunbeams where the organ stands^ 
You like to feel them on you. Come and play. 

M. My fate, my fate is lonely ! 

J. So it is — 

1 know it is. 

M. And pity breaks my heart. 

J. Does it, dear Merton ? 

M. Yes, I say it does. 

What ! do you think I am so dull of ear 
That I can mark no changes in the tones 
That reach me ? Once I liked not girlish pride 
And that coy quiet, chary of reply. 
That held me distant : now the sweetest lips 
Open to entertain me — fairest hands 
Are proffered me to guide. 

/. That is not well ? 

M. No : give me coldness, pride, or still disdain. 
Gentle withdrawal. Give me anything 
But this — a fearless, sweet, confiding ease, 
Whereof I may expect, I may exact, 
Considerate care, and have it — gentle speech, 
And have it. Give me anything but this ! 
For they who give it, give it in the faith 
That I will not misdeem them, and forget 
My doom so far as to perceive therel)v 



AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 163 

Hope of a wife. They make this thought too plaia ; 

They wound me — O they cut me to the heart ! 

When have I said to any one of them, 

" 1 am a blmd and desolate man ; — come here, 

I pray you — be as eyes to me ? " When said, 

l^ven to her whose pitying voice is sweet 

To my dark ruined heart, as must be hands 

Tliat clasp a lifelong captive's through the grate, 

And who will ever lend her delicate aid 

To guide me, dark encumbrance that I am ! — 

When have I said to her, " Comforting voice. 

Belonging to a face unknown, 1 pray 

Be my wife's voice ? " 

/. Never, my brother — no, 

You never have ! 

AL What could she think of me 

If I forgot myself so far? or what 
Could she reply ? 

J. You ask not as men ask 

Who care for an opinion, else perhaps, 
Although I am not sure — although, perliaps, 
r have no right to give one — I should say 
She would reply, " I will " 



Afterthought. 

Man dwells apart, though not alone, 
He walks among his peers unread ; 



164 AFTERNOON AT A PARSONAGE. 

The best of thoughts which he hath known. 
For lack of listeners are not said. 

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, 
He saith " They dwell not lone like men. 

Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles 
Flash far beyond each other's ken." 

He looks on God's eternal suns 
That sprmkle the celestial blue, 

And saith, " Ah ! happy shining ones, 

I would that men were grouped like you I ' 

Yet this is sure, the loveliest star 
That clustered with its [jeers we see, 

Only because from us so far 

Doth near its fellows seem to be. "^ 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 

SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. 

HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
There's no rain left in heaven : 
I've said my " seven times " over and over, 
Seven times one are seven. 



I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 
The lambs play always, they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
And shining so round and low ; 

You were briglit ! ah bright I but your light is failing 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 



166 SONGS OF SEVEN. 

velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, 
You've powde]-ed your legs with gold ! 

brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

columbine, open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoo pmt, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest with the young ones in it 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old ! you may trust me, Unnet, liimet — 
I am seven times one to-day. 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. 

You bells in the steeple, i-ing, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be, 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys. 
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 

The fortune of future days. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 167 

" Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 

While a boy listened alone ; 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so weai-ily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over. 

And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover : 

You leave the story to me. 

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,' 

And hangeth her hoods of snow ; 
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weatlier : 

0, children take long to grow. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late ; 
And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster. 

For some things are ill to wait. 

r wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 

While dear hands are laid on my head ; 
" The child is a woman, the book may close over. 

For all the lessons are said." 

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree ; 
The bells cannot ring it, but long years, bring it ! 

Such as I wish it to be. 



168 SUXGS OF SEVEIV. 



SETKS TDIES THREE. LOVE. 

I LE.vxED out of window, 1 smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dai-k was the gai"den, I saw not the gate ; 
" Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush ! O, sweet nightingale, wail 
Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 
For my love he is late ! 

" The skies in the dai-kness stoop nearer and nearer, 

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 

The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer , 

To what ail thou listening, and what dost thou see ? 

Let the star-clusters glow, 

Let the sweet waters flow, 

And cross quickly to me. 

•* You night-moths that hover where honey brims ovei 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 

You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste. 

For the time runs to waste, 

And my love lieth deep — 

" Too deep for swift telling : and yet ray one lover 
I've conned thee an answ^er, it waits tlice to-night." 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 169 

By tlie sycamore pcassed he, and through the white clover. 
Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight : 
But I'll love him more, more 
Thau e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. MATERNITY. 

Heigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, \ 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately imd tall ! 
"Wlien the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. 

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses 
Eager to gathei- them all. 

Ileigh ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-spurrow, 

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full lain 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be hn 
narrow " — 

Sing once, and slug it again. 

fleigh ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow ; 



170 SONGS OF SEVEN. 

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow. 

bonny brown sons, and sweet little daughters, 

Maybe he thinks on you now ! 

fleigh ho! daisies and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall — 

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure. 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall ! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, 
(iod that is over us all ! 



SETEN TIMES FIVE. AVIDOWUOOD. 

I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan 

Before I am well awake ; 
" Let me bleed ! let me alone, 

Since I must not break ! " 

For children wake, though fathers sleep 
"With a stone at foot and at head : 

sleepless God, forever keep. 
Keep both living and dead ! 

1 lift mine eyes, and w^hat to see 

But a world happy and fair! 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 171 

J have not wished it to mourn with me — 
Comfort is not there. 

what auear but golden brooms, 
And a waste of reedy rills ! 

what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills ! 

1 shall not die, but live forlore — 

How bitter it is to part ! 

to meet thee, my love, once more I 
my heart, my heart ! 

No more to hear, no more to see ! 

that an echo might wake 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

1 should know it how faint soe'er, 
And with angel voices blent ; 

once to feel thy spirit anear, 

1 could be content ! 

Or once between the gates of gold. 

While an angel entering trod. 
But once — thee sitting to behold 

On the hills of God ! 



172 SONGS OF SEVEN. 



SEVEN TIMES SIX. OrVlNQ IN MARRIAGE. 

To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
To see my bright ones disappear, 

Drawn up like morning dews — 
To bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To watch, and then to lose : 
This have I done when God drew near 

Among his own to choose. 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

And with thj lord depart 
In teare that he, as soon as shed, 

Will let no longer smart. — 
To hear, to heed, to wed. 

This while thou didst I smiled. 
For now it was not God who said, 
" Mother, give me thy child." 

O fond, fool, and blind, 

To God I gave with tears ; 
But when a man like grace would lln<l, 

My soul put by hei' fears — 
O fond, fool, and blind, 

God guards in happier spheres ; 
That man will guard where he did bind 

Is hope for imknoAvn years. 



SO\^GS OF SEVEN. 173 

To hear, to heed, to wed, 

Ffiir lot that maidens choose, 
Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 

Thy face no moie she views ; 
Thy mother's lot, my dear. 

She doth in nought accuse ; 
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 

To love — and then to lose. 



SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. 
I. 

A SONG of a boat: — 
There was once a boat on a billow : 
oightly she rocked to her port remote, 
A id the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
Aud her frail mast bowed wlieu the breeze would blow 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

II. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

AVent curtseying over the billow, 
I marked her course till a dancing mote 
She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
And 1 stayed behind in the dear loved home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 



174 SONGS OF SEVEN. 

III. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat. 

In river or port. 
Long 1 looked out for the lad she bore. 

On the open desolate sea, 
And 1 thiuk he sailed to the heavenly shore, 
For he came not back to me — 

Ah me ! 



A song of a nest : — 

There was once a nest in a hollow : 

Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 

Soft and warm, and full to the brim — 

Vetches leaned over it purple and dim. 

With buttercup buds to follow. 



1 pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : — 
You shall never light, in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter 
That wind-like did come and go. 



SONGS OF SEVEN. 175 

VI. 

I had a iiestful once of my own, 

Ah happy, luippy 1 ! 
Eight dearly I loved them : but when they were grown 

They spread out tlieir wings to tiy — 
O, one after one they flew away 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day. 

And — I wish I was going too. 

VII. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest ? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set. 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts aj-e sent, 

The oxily home for me — 

Ah me ! 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

)E reached the place by night, 
And heard the waves breaking : 
They came to meet us with candles alight 
To show the path we were taking. 
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white 
With tufted flowers down shaking. 

"With head beneath her wing, 

A little wren was sleeping — 
So near, I had found it an easy thing 

To steal her for my keeping 
From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing 

Across the path was sweeping. 

Down rocky steps rough-hewed. 

Where cup-mosses flowered, 
And under the trees, all twisted and rude, 

Wherewith tlie dell was dowered. 
They led us, where deep in its solitude 

Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered. 

The thatch was all bespread 
With climbing passion-flowers ; 



A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 177 

They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed 

That day in genial sho\vers. 
" AVas never a sweeter nest," \\u said, 

"Than this little nest of oiir.s." 

We laid us down to sleep : 

liut as for me — waking, 
I marked the plunge of tlie niuHietl deep 

On its sandy reaches breaking ; 
For heart-joyance doth sometimes keep 

From shnnber, like heart-aching. 

And I was glad that night, 

With no reason ready, 
To give my o^vn heart for its deep delight, 

That flowed like some tidal eddy, 
Or shone like a star that was rising bright 

With comforting radiance steady. 

liut on a sudden — hark ! 

Music struck asunder 
Those meshes of bliss, and I wept in the dark. 

So sweet was the unseen wonder ; 
So swiftly it touched, as if struck at a mai-k, 

The trouble that joy kept under. 

I rose — the moon outshone : 

I saw the sea lieaving, 
And a little vessel .-iuiling alone, 

VOL. I. — 12 



178 ^ COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

The small crisp wavelet cleaving ; 
'Twas she as she sailed to her port unknown — 
Was that track of sweetness leaving. 

We know they music made 

In lieaven, ere man's creation ; 
l>iit when God threw it down to ns that strayed 

It dropt with lamentation, 
And ever since doth its sweetness shade 

With sighs for its first station. 

Its joy suggests regret — 

Its most for more is yearning ; 
And it brings to the soul that its \oice hath raei, 

No rest that cadence learning, 
lint a conscious part in the sighs that fret 

Its nature for returning. 

Eve, sweet Eve ! methought 
When sometimes comfort winning, 

As she watched the first children's tender spotl, 
Sole joy born since her sinning, 

If a bird anear them sang, it brought 
The pang as at beginning. 

While swam the imshed tear, 

Her prattlers little heeding. 
Would murmur, " This bird, with its carol clear. 

When the red clay was kneaden, 



A COTTAGE IN A CIIiyE. 179 

And God made Adam our father dear, 
Sang to him thus in Eden." 

The moon went in — the sky 

And earth and sea liidhig, 
I laid me down, nlth the youriiing sigh 

Of that strain m my heart abiding ; 
I slept, and the barque that bad sailed so nigh 

In my di-eam was ever gliding, 

1 slept, but waked amazed, 

With sudden noise frighted. 
And voices without, and a flash that dazed 

My eyes from cmidles lighted. 
"Ah ! surely," methought, '* by these shouts ui)raised 

Some travellers are benighted." 

A voice was at my side — 

" Waken, madam, waken ! 
The long prayed-for ship at her anchor doth ride. 

Let the child from its rest be taken, 
For the captaui doth weary for babe and fur bride — 

Waken, madam, w aken ! 

" Tlie home you left but bite, 

lie speeds to it light-heuried ; 
By the wires he sent this news, and stiuight 

To you with it they started." 
joy for a yearning heart too gr<;at, 

O union for the oai'ted ! 



180 A COTTAGE IN A CHINE. 

We rose up in the night, 

The morning star was shining ; 
We carried the child in its slumber light 

Out by the myrtles twining : 
Orion over the sea hung bright, 

And glorious in declining. 

Mother, to meet her son, 

Smiled first, then wept the rather ; 
And wife, to bind up those links undone. 

And cherished words to gather. 
And to show the face of her little one. 

That had never seen its fatlier. 

Tliat cottage in a chine 

We were not to behold it ; 
But there may the purest of sunbeams shine, 

May freshest flowers enfold it, 
For sake of the news which our hearts must twint 

With the bower where we were told it ! 

Now oft, left lone again. 

Sit mother and sit daughter. 
And bless the good ship that sailed over the main, 

And the favoring winds that brought her ; 
While still some new beauty they fable and feign 

For the cottage by the water. 



PERSEPHONE. 

(Written for Tue Portfolio Society, January, 18G2. 
Subject given — " Light and Shade.") 

^S?HPj stepped upou Sicilian grass, 

Demeter's daughter fi-esh aud fair, 
A child of light, a radiant lass, 
And gamesome as the raoiTiing air. 
The daffodils were fair to see, 
They nodded lightly on the lea, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

Lo ! one she marked of rarer growth 

Than orchis or anemone ; 
For it the maiden left them both, 

And parted from her company. 
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still. 
And stooped to gather by the rill 
The daffodU, the daffodil. 

What ailed the meadow that it shook? 

What ailed the air of Sicily ? 
She wondered by the brattling brook, 



182 LIGHT AND SHADE. 

And trembled with the trembling lea. 
" The coal-black horses rise — they rise : 
mother, mother ! " low she cries — 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

" O light, light, light ! " she cries, " farewell 
The coal-black horses wait for me. 

O shade of shades, Avhere I must dwell, 
Demeter, mother, far from thee ! 

Ah, fated doom that I fulfil! 

Ah, fateful flower beside the rill ! 

Tlie datfodil, the daffodil ! " 

What aUs her that she comes not home ? 

Demeter seeks her far and wide, 
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam 

From many a mom till eventide. 
" I\Iy life, immortal though it be, 
Is nought," she cries, " for want of thee, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

" Meadows of Enna, let the rain 
No longer drop to feed your rills, 

Nor dew refresh the fields again. 
With all their nodding daffodils ! 

Fade, fade and droop, lilied lea. 

Where thou, dear heart, wert reft from me - 

Persephone — Persephone ! " 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 183 

She reigns upon her dusky tlu-one, 
Mid shades of heroes dread to see ; 

Among the dead she breathes alone, 
Persephone — Persephone ! 

Or seated on the Elysian hill 

She dreams of earthly daylight still, 

And murmurs of the datfodil. 

A voice in Hades soundeth clear, 
The shadows mourn and flit below ; 

It cries — " Thou Lord of Hades, hear, 
And let Demeter's daughter go. 

The tender corn upon the lea 

Droops in her goddess gloom when she 

Cries for her lost Persephone. 

" From land to land she raging flies. 
The green fruit falleth in her wake. 

And harvest fields beneath her eyes 
To earth the grain unripened shake. 

Arise, and set the maiden free ; 

Why should the world such sorrow dree 

By i-eason of Persephone ? " 

He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds : 
" Love, eat with me this parting day ; " 

Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds — 
" Demeter's daughter, wouldst away ? " 

The gates of Hades set her free : 



184 LIGHT AND SHADE. 

" She will return full soon," saith he — 
" Mj wife, my wife Persephone." 

Low laughs the dark king on his throne — 

" I gave her of pomegranate seeds." 
Demeter's daughter stands alone 
Upon the fair Eleusian meads. 
Her mother meets her. " Hail ! " saith she 
" And doth our daylight dazzle thee, 
My love, my child Persephone ? 

" What moved thee, daughter, to forsake 
Thy fellow-maids that fatal morn, 

And give thy dark lord power to take 
Thee living to his realm forlorn ? " 

Her lips reply without her will. 

As one addressed who slumbei'eth still — 

" The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 

Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, 
And sumiy wafts that round her stir. 

Her cheek upon her mother's breast — 
Demeter's kisses comfort her. 

Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she 

Who stepped so lightly on the lea — 

Persephone, Persephone ? 

When, in her destined course, the moon 
Meets the deep shadow of this woi Id, 



LIGHT AND SHADE. 185 

And laboi'ing on cloth seem to swoon 

Tlirough awful wastes of dimness whirled — 
Emerged at length, no trace hath she 
Of that dark hour of destiny, 
Still silvery sweet — Persephone. 

The greater world may near the less. 

And draw it through her weltering shade, 
But not one biding trace impress 

Of all the darkness that she made ; 
The greater soul that draweth thee 
Hath left his shadow plain to see 
On tliy fair face, Persephone ! 

Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well 

The wife should love her destiny : 
They part, and yet, as legends tell. 

She mourns her lost Persephojie ; 
While chant the maids of Enna still — 
" fateful flower beside the rill — 
The daffodil, the daffodil ! " 



A SEA SONG. 

LD ALBION sat on a crag of late. 
ImM And sang out — '' Ahoy ! aiioy ! 

Long life to the captjiin, good luck to the mate, 
And this to my sailor boy ! 

Come over, come home, 

Through the salt sea foam. 

My sailor, my sailor boy. 

"Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, 

A crown for my sailor's head, 
And all for the worth of a widowed queen, 
And the love of the noble dead ; 
And the fear and fame 
Of the island's name 
Where my boy was born and breil. 

" Content thee, content thee, let it alone. 

Thou marked for a choice so rare ; 
Though treaties be treaties, never a thione 
Was proffered for cause as fair. 
Yet come to me home, 
Through the salt sea foam. 
For the Greek must ask elsewhere. 



A SEA SONG. 



187 



" 'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell ? 

Many lands they look to me ; 
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well. 
But that's as hereafter may be." 
She raised her white head 
And laughed ; and she said 
" That's as hereafter may be/' 




BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

T was a village built in a green rent. 
Between two cliffs that skirt the dangerous bay 

A reef of level rock runs out to sea, 
And you may lie on it and look sheer down, 
Just where the " Grace of Sunderland " was lost, 
And see the elastic banners of the dulse 
Rock softly, and the orange star-fish creep 
Across the laver, and the mackerel shoot 
Over and under it, like silver boats 
Turning at will and plying under water. 

There on that reef we lay upon our breasts, 

My brother and I, and half the village lads, 

For an old fisherman had called to us 

With " Sirs, the syle be come." "And what are they ? " 

Aly brother said. " Good lack ! " the old man cried. 

And shook his head ; " To thmk you gentJefolk 

Should ask what syle be ! Look you ; I can't say 

What syle be called in your fine dictionaries, 

Nor what name God Almighty calls them by 

When their food's ready and He sends them south : 

But our folk call them syle, and nouglit but syle. 

And when they're grown, why then we call them herrinof. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 189 

I tell you, Sir, the water is as full 
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass ; 
You'll draw a score out in a landing net, 
A.nd none of them be longer than a pin. 

" Syle ! ay, indeed, v/e should be badly off, 
I reckon, and so Avould God Almighty's gulls," 
He grumbled on in liis quaint piety, 
" And all His other birds, if He should say 
I will not drive my syle into the south ; 
The fisher folk may do without ray syle. 
And do without the shoals of fish it draws 
To follow and feed on it." 

This said, we made 
Om' peace with him by means of two small coins, 
And down we ran and lay upon the reef. 
And saw the swimming infants, emerald gi-een. 
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb 
Bringing them in ; while sleek, and not intent 
On chase, but taking that which came to hand, 
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam 
Between ; and settling on the polished sea, 
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly 
in social rings, and twittered wliile they fed. 
The village dogs tmd ours, elate and brave, 
Lay looking over, barking at the fish ; 
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait. 
And when they heaved and floundered on the rock. 
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat 



190 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Some shaggy pup would deal, tlien back away, 

At distance eye them with sagacious doubt, 

And shrink half frighted from the slippery things. 

And so we lay from ebb-tide, tiU the ilow 
Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; 
The fisher lads went home across the sand ; 
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, 
Tidking and looking down. It was not talk 
Of much significance, except for this — 
That we had more in connnon than of old, 
For both were tired, I with overwork. 
He with inaction ; I was glad at heart 
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear 
That he could grumble to, and half hi jest 
Uail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs. 
And the misfortune of a good estate — 
Misfortune that was sure to pull him tlown, 
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man : 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate 
Already. Thereupon he sent down sho-wers 
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, 
And leap the cliflfs and tumble noisily 
Into the seething wave. And as for me, 
I railed at him and at ingratitude, 
Wiule rifling of the basket he had slung 
Across his shoulders ; then with right good will 
We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, 
Like laborers, or like eager woi-khouse folk 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 191 

At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole 

At once, like tired, Imngry, healthy youth, 

Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask 

Draiiied of its latest drop, the meat and bread 

And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs 

Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine — 

This man, that never felt an ache or pain 

In Ills broad, well-knit frame, and never knew 

Tlie trouble of an unforgiven grudge, 

The sting of a regretted meanness, nor 

The desperate struggle of the unendowed 

For place and for possession — he begun 

To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought ; 

Sending it out with cogitative pause. 

As if the scene where he had shaped it first 

Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it 

Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind 

Whether his dignity it well beseemed 

To sing of pretty maiden : 

(Jdldilocks sat on the grass, 

Tying up of posies rare ; 
Hardly could a §unbeam pass 

Through the cloud tliat was her hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth low^, 

I'rimrose flowers are p;ile and clear ; 
the maiden sang a son^ 

It would do you good tu iiear ! 

Sad before her leaned the boy, 
" Goldilocks that I love v/ell, 



192 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Ilappy creature,fair and coy, 
Think o' me, sweet Amabel." 

Goldilocks she shook apart, 
Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes ; 

Like a blossom in her heart, 
Opened out her first surprise. 

As a gloriole sign o' grace, 

Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, 
On the blooming, childlike face. 

Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time ; on grass and sky 

Let her gaze if she be fain : 
As they looked ere he drew nigh, 

They will never look again. 

Ah! the playtime she has known, 

While her goldilocks grew long, 
Is it like a nestling flown. 

Childhood over like a song ? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow, 

Though she thinks to say him nay, 
When she sighs, " I cannot now — 

Come again some other day." 



" Hold ! there," he cried, half arigry with himself; 

" That ending goes amiss : " then turned again 

To the old argument that we had held — 

" Nt)w look you ! " said my brother, " You ma)- talk 

Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, 

There's reason in your words ; ' and you may talk 

Till I go on to say, ' This should be so ; ' 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 193 

And you may talk till I sliall further own 

' It I's so ; J OS, I am a lucky dog ! ' 

Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. 

And with a natural and fervent sigh, 

Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 

' What an unlucky dog I am ! ' " And here 

He broke into a laugh. " But as for you — 

You ! on all hands you have the best of me ; 

Men have not robbed ijou of your birthriglit — work, 

Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field. 

Nor wedded heiresses against their will. 

Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached. 

That you might drone a useless life away 

'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms 

And half a dozen bogs." 

'* O rai-e ! " I cried ; 
" His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: 
Now we behold how fiir bad actions reach ! 
Because five hundred years ago a Knight 
Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard 
Be(;ause three hundred years ago a squire — 
Against her will, and for her fair estate — 
Married a very ugly red-haired maid. 
The blest inheritor of all their pelf, 
Wliile in the full enjoyment of the same, 
Sighs on his own confession every day. 
He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, 
Noi eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong ; 
Then, yet the more to be revenged on them. 



194 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And shame their ancient pi-ide, if they should know, 
Works hard as miy hoi"se for his degree, 
And takes to "vvi-iting verses." 

" Ay," he said, 
Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, 
Hut for those tresses which enrich us yet 
W^ith somewhat of the hue that partial fame 
Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, 
But when it tlames round brows of younger sons, 
Just i-ed — mere red ; why, but for this, I say. 
And but for selfish getting of the laud, 
And beggarly entailing it, we two, 
To-day well fed, well growni, well dressed, well i-ead, 
We might have been two horny-handed boors — 
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors — 
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme. 
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences 
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost. 

" Wliat, choi-us ! are you dumb ? you should have cried, 
' So good comes out of evil ; ' " and with that. 
As if all pauses it was natural 



Coo, dove, to tliy married mate — 
She has two warm eggs in her nest : 

Tell her the hours are few to wait 
Ere life shall dawn on their rest ; 
And ttiy young sliall peck at the shells, elato 

Witli a di-eam of her brooding breast. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 195 

Coo, (love, for she counts the hours. 

Her fair wings aclie for flight : 
By day the apple lias grown in tlie flowers, 

And the moon has grown by niglit, 
And the white drift settled from iiawthorn bowers, 

Yet they will not seek the light. 

Coo, dove ; but what of the sky? 

And what if the storm-wind swell. 
And the reeling branch come down from on high 

To the grass where daisies dwell, 
And the brood beloved should with them lie 

Or ever they break the sliell ■? 

Coo, dove ; and yet black clouds lower. 

Like fate, on the far-off sea : 
Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, 

As on wings of destiny. 
All, what if they break in an evil hour. 

As tliey broke over mine and mel 

Wliat next? — we started like to girls, for lo ! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, 
Of one who stooped behuid us, cried aloud 
" Good lack ! how sweet the gentleman does sing — 
So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. 
Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child — 
A Chrisom child." 

" AVho's INIike ? " my brother growled 
A littl(; roughly. Quoth the fisherman — 
" Mike, Sir ? he's just a fisher lad, no more ; 
But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, 



196 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire 
But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make hold, 
I'd ask what soni; that was you sung. My mate, 
A.S we were shoving off the mackerel boats, 
•^iaid he, " I'll wager that's the sort o' song 
They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea.'" 

" There, fisherman," quoth I, " he showed his wit, 
Your mate ; he marked the sound of savage war — ■ 
Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, 
And ' murderous messages,' delivered by 
Spent balls tliat break the heads of dreaming men." 

■* A.y, ay, Sir ! " quoth the fi^sherraan. " Have done ! " 

.My l)i-other. And I — " The gift belongs to few 

Oi' sending farther than the words can reach 

Tlit'ir spirit and expression ; " still — " Have done ! " 

He cried ; and then " I rolled the rubbish out 

More loudly than the meaning warranted. 

To air my lungs — I thought not on the words." 

Then said the fisherman, who missed tlie point, 

" So Mike rolls out the psalm ; you'll hear him. Sir, 

Please God you live till Sunday." 

" Even so : 
And you, too, fisherman ; for here, they say. 
You are all church-goers." 

" Surely, Sir," quoth he, 
Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 197 

And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, 
As one that utters Avith a quiet mind 
Unchallenged truth — " 'Tis lucky for the boats." 

The boats ! 'tis lucky for the boats ! Our eyes 
Were drawn to him as either fain would say, 
What ! do they send the psalm up in the spire, 
And pray because 'tis lucky ibr the boats ? 

But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, 
That all his life had been a church-goer. 
Familiar with celestial cadences. 
Informed of all he could receive, and sure 
Of all he understood — he sat content, 
And we kept silence. In his reverend face 
There was a simpleness we could not sound ; 
Much truth had passed him overhead ; some error 
He had trod under foot; — God comfort liim ! 
He could not learn of us, for we were young 
And he was old, and so we gave it up ; 
And the sun went into the west, and down 
Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, 
And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 
To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 
Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships 
With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass : 
It took moreover music, for across 
The heather belt and over pasture land 
Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell. 



198 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

And parted time into divisions rare, 
Whereof each morsel brought its own dehght. 

" They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
" Our parson preaches in the church to-night." 

" And do the people go ? " my brother asked. 

'* Ay, Sir ; they count it mean to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all " 

" That's a great gift, and notable," said I. 

" Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man 

He went out in the lifeboat very oft, 

Before the * Grace of Simderland ' was \vrecked. 

He's never been his own man since that hour : 

For there were thirty men aboard of her, 

Anigh as close as you are now to me, 

And ne'er a one was saved. 

They're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have any names. 

She bumped upon the reef; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, 
And crept along to her ; their mates ashore 



BROTHERS, A^'D A SERMON. 199 

ReaJy to luuil tlieiu in. The gale w as liigli, 
The sea was all a boiling seething ft-otli, 
And God Ahiiighty's guns were going off, 
And the land trembled. 

" When she took the gi-ountl, 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that. 
The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
One in each arm — his little lad and lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before his face, 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; lie fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead. 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tmnbled back 
With eyes wide open. But the captain lay 
And clung — the only man alive. They prayed — 
'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here !' 
' Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck 
And he threw one, a pretty two years child ; 
But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, 
And down he Avent. They say they heard him cry. 

" Then he rose up and took the other one, 

And all our men reached out their hungry arms, 

And cried out, 'Throw her. throw her!' and he did: 



200 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

He threw her right against the parson's breast, 
And all at once a sea broke over them, 
And they that saw it from the shore have said 
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, 
Just as a woman might the lump of salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan 
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

" "We hauled our men in : two of them were dead - 
The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down ; 
Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his. 

" I ask your pardon. Sirs, I prate and prate, 
And never have I said what brought me here. 
Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, 
I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine." 

" Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied ; 

" A boat, his boat ; " and off he went, well pleased 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky 
Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on. 
And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among tlie heather beds. 
And up and down between tlie sheaves we sped, 
Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine 



JiliOTHERS, AND A SElUfON. 201 

Rail up into the laud and cut us off, 
Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. 
And rent with many a crevice, where the wiud 
Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept 
Fioni the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So as it chanced we lighted on a path 

Tliat led into a nutwood ; and our talk 

Was louder than beseemed, if we had knovvn. 

With argument and laughter; for the path, 

As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 

Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass. 

And close upon a porch, and face to face 

With those within, and with the thirty graves. 

We heard the voice of one who preached within, 

And stopped. " Come on," my brother whispered me ; 

" It were more decent that we enter now ; 

Come on ! we'll hear this rare old demigod : 

I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads, 

And grand grutf voices, hoarse though this may be 

With shouting in the storm." 

It was not hoarse, 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not ; 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us. 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, 
And were apprised that, though he saw u& not, 



202 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 

And ears of those before him, for he made 

A pause — a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, 

And stood avvaiting, till I felt the red 

Mount to ray brow. 

And a soft fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother huslied 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound. " Behold ! 
Behold ! " saith He, " I stand at the dooi- and knock." 

Then said the parson : " What ! and shall He wait. 

And miist He wait, not only till we say, 

* Good Lord, the house is clean, the heartli is swcpi. 

The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, 

And all the nets are mended ; therefore I 

Will slowly to the door and open it:' 

Rut nuist He also wait where still, behold ! 

Ho stands and knocks, while we do say, ' Good I^ord. 

Tlie gentlefolk are come to Avorship here, 

And I will up and open to Thee soon ; 

Rut first I pray a little longer wait, 

For I am taken up with them ; my eyesi 

M'ol needs regard the fiishion of their clothes, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 203 

Aiid count the gains I tliink to make by them ; 
Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord ! 
Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord 
Or come again ? ' 

What ! must He wait for this — 
For this ? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, 
Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, ' Behold ! 
I stand at the door and knock.' 

O patient hand ! 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in tlie night 
Wlien work is done ! I charge you, by the sea 
Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of Him that made it — fishermen ! 
I charge you, mothers ! by the mother's milk 
He drew, and by His Father, God over all. 
Blessed forever, that ye answer Him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned ; 
If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty. 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it. 
And take Him in that comes to sup with thee ; 
' Behold ! ' He saith, ' I stand at the door and knock.' 

" Now, hear me : there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 
Tliat lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concernincr tliut wliich is to come: — 



204 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON 

I say 
As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this one — I caimot bear 
This ONE — I cannot bear the weight of you — • 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; 
\'ou, with the care you suffer, and tlie loss 
That you sustain ; you, with the growing up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great Avhite throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day, for eveiy time the black clouds rise, 
And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 
To find if tliere be aught that can persuade 
To good, or auglit forsooth that can beguile 
From evil, that I (miserable man ! 
If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 

" So that when any risen from sunken wrecks. 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea 

Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say 

Never, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; 

You left us fisher lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rooks, far deadlier than tlie dagger ; winds 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; wav 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 205 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This t',nme be on your head ; and as for us — 

What shall we do ? ' but rather — nay, not so, 

1 will not think it ; I will leave the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

Of you, but not so much if you have sinned 

As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

The day was, I have been afraid of pride — 

Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 

Of man's humility. I counsel you, 

By the great God's great humbleness, and by 

His pity, be not humble over-much. 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 

He stands and knocks, that you may never sayj 

' I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 

He knocks at otlier doors, but not at mine.' 

" See here ! it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, 
And the wan moon upon a casement shhies — 
A casement crusted o'er with fi-osty leaves, 
That make her ray less bright along llie floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, 
Poor tired soul ! and she has nought to do, 
F'or there is neither fire nor candle-light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth ^ 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; 
Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound 



206 BROTHERS, AND A SEIiMOM. 

Was not enough, another comes to her, 
Over God's undefiled snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 

• And doth she curse the aleliouse, and the sots 
That drink the night ont and their earnings th(!re, 
And drink their manly strength and courage down, 
And drink away the little children's bread, 
And starve her, starving by the self-same act 
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye- 
Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heaii 
To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop 
That feed the others ? 

Does she curse the song ? 
I think not, fishermen ; I have not heard 
Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing. 
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — 
' My master is not worse than many men : ' 
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still ; 
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long ? When troubles come of God 
When men are frozen out of work, when wive? 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, 
When boats go down at sea — then nought behoves 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. £07 

" O thou poor soul ! it is the night — the night ; 

Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, 

Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall ' thou sayest, ' fall, faT 

Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 

Am not I fallen ? wake up and pipe, wind, 

Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : 

Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, 

For there is other music made to-night 

That I would fain not hear. "VYake, thou still sea. 

Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white wtiterfall. 

0, I could long like thy cold icicles 

Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift 

And not complain, so I might melt at last 

In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do ! 

• ' But woe IS me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My Sim is sunken, and tlie niglit grows dark: 
None care for me. The children cry for bread, 
And I have none, and nought can comfort lue ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much, for death is long to wait, 
And heaven is far to go ! ' 

" And speak'st thou thus, 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee. 
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, 
And of the heaven that lieth far from thee ? 
Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near thy doc 
"Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow ; 
Thy sun \\»> liscn with comfort in his face. 



208 BROTHERS, AND A SERMOA. 

The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, 
And bless with saintly hand. What ! is it long 
To wait, and far to go ? Thou shalt not go ; 
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes. 
Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait ? 
Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' lie saitlt 
' I stand at tlie door and knock.' 

" It is enough — can such an one be here — 
Yea, here ? God forgive you, fishermen ! 
One ! is there only one ? But do thoxi know, 

woman pale for want, if thou art here. 

That on thy lot much thouglit is spent hi heaven ; 
And, coveting the heart a liard man broke. 
One standeth patient, watching in the night, 
And waiting in the daytime. 

What shall be 
If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee , 
One smile of His shall be enough to heal 
The wound of man's neglect ; and He will sigh. 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the desolate nigh 
In the dark night : ' For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands 
And feet : there was an earthquake, and I died 

1 died, and am alive for evermore. 

" ' I died for thee ; for thee 1 am alive. 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee. 
For iliou art mine; and all thy little ones, 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 209 

They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons 
or God are singing, and, behold, the heart 
Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white ; 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou shalt warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will eomfbrt thee ; 
1 go away, but 1 will come again.' 

" But hear me yet. Theie was a poor old man 

Who sat and listened to the i-aging sea. 

And heard it thunder, lunging at the clilfs 

As like to tear them down. He lay at night ; 

And ' Lord have mercy on the lads,' said he, 

' That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ! 

For when the gale gets up, and when the wind 

Flings at the window, when it beats the roof. 

And lulls and stops and rouses up again, 

And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave. 

And scatters it like feathers up the field, 

Why, then I think of my two lads: my lads 

That would have worked and never let me want, 

And never let me take the parish pay. 

No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea — 

My two — before the most of tliese were born. 

I know how sharp that cuts, since my pour wifi* 



210 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

Walked up aiid down, and still walked iii) and down. 

And I walked after, and one could not hear 

A word the other said, for wind and sea 

That raged and beat and thundered in the ni^jht — 

The awfuUest, the longest, lightest night 

That ever parents had to spend — a moon 

That shone like daylight on the breaking wave. 

Ah nie ! and other men have lost their lads. 

And other women wiped their poor dead mouths, 

And got them home and dried them in the liouse. 

And seen the driftwood lie along the coast. 

That was a tidy bout but one day back. 

And seen next tide the neighbors gather it 

To lay it on their fires. 

Ay, I was sti'ong 
And able-bodied — loved my work ; — but now 
I am a useless hull : 'tis time I sunk ; 
I am in all men's way ; I trouble them ; 
I am a trouble to myself: but yet 
1 feel for mariners of stormy nights, 
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay ! 
If I had learning I would pray tlie Loid 
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ; 
Book-learning is a world too hard for me : 
Hut 1 make bold lu suy, ' Lord, good Lord, 
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool 
To speak to Thee : but in the Book 'tis writ, 
As 1 hear say from others that can read, 
How, when Thou cuniest, Thou didst love tlie se.n. 



BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 211 

And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure 
Thou knowest all the peril they go through. 
And all their trouble. 

As for me, good Loi-d, 
I liave no boat ; I am too old, too old — 
My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife ; 
INly little lasses died so long ago 
Tliat mostly I forget what they were like. 
Thou knowest. Lord ; they were such little ones. 
1 know they went to Thee, but I forget 
'J'heir faces, though I missed them sore. 

O Lord, 
1 was a strong man ; I have drawn good food 
And made good money out of Thy great sea : 
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now, 
Although I be so old, I miss my lads. 
And there be many folk this stormy night 
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord, 
Comfort them ; save their honest boys, their pride, 
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest, 
liest sound — the boat -keels grating on the sand. 

• I cannot pray with tiner words: I know 
Nothing; I have no learning, cannot learn — 
Too old, too old. They say I want for nought, 
1 have the parish pay ; but I am dull 
Of hearing, and the tire scai'ce wainis me tlinnigh. 
God save me, 1 liave been a sinful man — 
And save tlie lives of them that still can work, 



212 BROTHERS, AND A SERMON. 

For tliey are good to me ; ay, good to me. 

But, Lord, I am a trouble ! and I sit. 

And I am lonesome, and the nights are few 

That any think to come and draw a chair, 

And sit in my poor place and talk a while. 

Why should they come, forsooth ? Only the wifid 

Knocks at my door, long and loud it knocks, 

Tlie only thing God made that has a mind 

To enter in.' 

"Yea, thus the old man spake: 
These were the last words of his aged mouth — 
But One did knock. One came to sup witli him 
That humble, weak, old man ; knocked at his door 
In the rough pauses of the laboring wind. 
I tell you that One knocl'X'd while it was dark. 
Save where their foamino lassion had made white 
Those livid seething billows* What He said 
In that poor place where He Ud talk a while, 
1 cannot tell : but this I am asi. ared, 
That when the neighbors came the morrow uioin, 
What time the wind had bated, and the sun 
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile 
He passed away in, and they said, ' He looks 
As he had woke and seen the face of Clirist, 
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms 
To come to Him ! ' 

" Can such an one be here. 
So old. so weak, so iiriioraii), so frail? 



BRDTIIERS, AND A SERMON. 213 

The Lord be good to tliee, thou poor old man ; 
It would be hard with thcc if heaven were shut 
To such as have not learning ! Nay, nay, nay, 
He condescends to them of low estate ; 
To such as are despised He cometh down, 
Slands at the door and knocks. 

" Yet bear wiih me. 
I have a message ; I have more to say. 
Shall sorrow win His pity, and not sin — 
That burden ten times heavier to be borne? 
What think you? Shall tlie virtuous have His care 
Alone ? O virtuous women, think not scorn. 
For you may lift your faces everywhere ; 
And now that it grows dusk, and I can see 
None though they front me straight, I fain would tell 
A certain thing to you. I say to you ; 
And if it doth concern you, as methinks 
It doth, then surely it concerneth all. 
I sa}- tliat there was once — I say n«i! here — 
1 say that tiiere was once a castaway, 
And she was weeping, weeping bitterly ; 
Kneeling, and crying with a heart-sick cry 
That choked itself in sobs — ' O my good name ! 
Oh my good name!' And none did liear her cry I 
Nay ; and it lightened, and the storm-bolts fell, 
And the rain splashed upon the roof, and still 
She, storm-tost as the storming elements — 
She cried with an exceeding bitter cry, 



214 iniOTIIEIlS, AND A SICllMON: 

' O my good name ! ' And then the thunder-cloud 
Stooped low and burst in darkness overhead, 
And rolled, and I'ocked her on her knees, and shook 
The frail foundations of her dwelling-place. 
Hut she — if any neighbors had come in 
(None did) : if any neighbors had come in. 
They miglit have seen her crying on her knees. 
And sob!)iiig ' Lost, lost, lost!' beating her breasi — 
Her breast forever pricked with cruel thorns. 
The wounds whereof could neither balm assuage 
Nor any j)atience heal — beating her brow, 
Which ached, it had been bent so long to hide 
From level eyes, whose meaning was contempt. 

" ye good women, it is hard to leave 
The paths of virtue, aud return again. 
What if this sinner wept, and none of you 
Comforted her? And what if she did strive 
To mend, and none of you believed her strife. 
Nor looked upon her? Mark, I do not say. 
Though it was hard, you therefore were to blame ; 
Tliat she had aught against you, though your feet 
Never drew near her door. But I beseech 
Your ])atience. Once in old Jerusalem 
A woman kneeled at consecrated feet. 
Kissed them, and washed them with her tears. 

What then ? 
1 think that yet our Lord is pitiful : 
I think I see the castaway e'en now ! 



BROTH ERti, AND A SERMON. 215 

And she is not alone : the heavy raiu 
ISplashes without, and sullen thunder rolls. 
Hut slic is lying at the sacred feet 
Of One transfigured. 

" And her tears flow down, 
Down to her lips, — her lips that kiss the print 
Of nails ; and love is like to break her heart ! 
Love and repentance — for it still doth work 
Sore in her soul to think, to think that she, 
Kven slie, did pierce the sacred, sacred lect. 
And bruise the thorn-crowned head. 

"0 Lord, our Lord, 
How gi-eat is Thy compassion. Come, good Loi-d, 
For we will open. Come this night, good T^ord ; 
Stand at the door and knock. 

"And is this all? — 
Trouble, old age and simpleuess, and sin — 
Tins all? It might be all some other night ; 
But this night, if a voice said ' Give account 
Whom hast thou with thee ? ' then must I reply, 
' Young manhood have I, beautiful youth and strength, 
llich with all treasure drawn up from the crypt 
Wliere lies the learning of the ancient world — 
llrave with all thoughts that poets fling upon 
I'lie strand of life, as driftweed after storms : 
Doubtless familiar with Thy mountam headd, 
And the dread purity of Alpine snows, 
Doubtless familiar with Thy works concealed 
For ages from mankind — outlying worlds. 



216 BROTHERS, AND A SKRMON. 

Aiul nuuiy raooned spheres — aud Thy great store 
Of stars, more thick than mealy dust which here 
Powders the joale leaves of Auriculas. 

This do I know, but, Lord, I know not more. 

Not more concerning them — concernuig Thee, 

I know Thy bounty; where Thou givest much 

Standing without, if any call Thee in 

Thou givest more.' Speak, then, O rich and sirong: 

Open, O happy young, ere yet the hand 

Of Him that knocks, wearied at last, forbear ; 

The patient foot its tliankless quest refrain. 

The wounded heart for evermore withdraw." 

I have heard many speak, but this one man — 

So anxious not to go to heaven alone — 

This one man I remember, and his look. 

Till twilight overshadowed him. He ceased. 

And out in darkness ^\■ith the fisherfolk 

We passed and stumbled over mounds of moss. 

And heard, but did not see, the passing beck. 

Ah, graceless heart, would that it could regain 

From the dim storehouse of sensations past 

The impress full of tender awe, that night. 

Which fell on me ! It was as if the Clirist 

Had been drawn down from heaven to track us liome, 

And any of the footsteps following us 

Mio;ht have been His. 




A WEDDING SONG. 

,,„^,.j,OME up the broad river, tlie Tluinies, ray 
'''^ ° Dane, 

My Dane with the beautiful eyes ! 
Thousauds and thousands await thee full fain, 

And talk of the wind and the skies. 
Fear not from folk and from country to part, 

0, I swear it is wisely done : 
Vov (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart, 
As becometli my father's sen. 

Great London was shouting as I went down. 

" She is worthy," I said, " 0( this ; 
What shall I give who have promised a crown ? 

0, first 1 will give her a kiss." 
So I kissed lier and brought her, my Dane, my Dane, 

Through tiie waving wonderful crowd : 
Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain, 

Like mighty thunders and loud. 

And they said, " He is young, the lad we love, 

The heir of the Isles is young: 
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above, 

Can neillier be said nor sung. 



218 



A WEDDING SONG. 



He brings us a pledge — he will do his part 
With the best of his race and name;" — 

A;ul I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, 
As may suit with my mother's fame. 




THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

LOVE this gray old church, the low, long nave, 

Tlic ivied chancel and the slender spire ; 
No less its shadow on each heaving grave, 
With growing osier bound, or living briei- ; 
I love those yew-tree trunks, where stand arrayed 
So many deep-cut names of youth and maid. 

A simple custom this — I love it well — 
A ciirved betrotlial and a pledge of truth ; 

How many an eve, their linked names to spell. 
Beneath the yew-trees sat our village youth ! 

Wiien work was over, and the new-cut hay 

Sent wafts of balm from meadows where it lay. 

Ah ! many an eve, while I was yet a boy. 
Some village hind has beckoned me aside. 

And sought mine aid, with shy and awkward joy, 
To carve the letters of his rustic bride. 

And make them clear to read as graven stone, 

Deep in the yew-tree's trunk beside his own. 



220 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

For none could carve like rae, and here they stand. 
Fathers and mothers of this present race : 

An.l underscored by some less practised haiid, 
That tain the story of its line would tiace, 

With children's names, and number, and the day 

^^hen any called to God have passed away. 

I look upon them, and I turn aside, 

As oft when carving them 1 did erewhile ; 

And there I see those wooden bridges wide 
That cross the marshy hollow ; there the stile 

fn reeds embedded, and the swelling down, 

And the white road towards the distant town. 

But those old bridges claim another look. 

Our brattling river tumbles through the one ; 
The second spans a shallow, weedy brook ; 

Beneath the others, and beneath the sun. 
Lie two long stilly pools, and on their breasts 
Picture their wooden piles, encased in swallows' nests. 

And round about them grows a fringe of reeds, 
And then a floating crown of lily- flowers. 

And yet within small silver-budded weeds ; 
But each clear centre evermore embowers 

A deeper sky, where, stooping, you may see 

The little minnows darting restlessly. 

INIy heart is bitter, lilies, at your sweet ; 

Why did the dewdrop fringe your chalices? 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 221 

Wby in your beauty are you thus complete, 
You silver ships — you floating palaces ? 
! if need be, you must allure man's eye, 
Yet wherefore blossom here? O why? why? 

O ! O ! the world is wide, you lily flowers. 
It hath warm forests, cleft by stilly pools. 

Where every night bathe crowds of stars ; and bowers 
Of spicery hang over. Sweet air cools 

And sliakes the lilies among those stars that lie: 

Why ai-e not ye content to reign there ? Why ? 

That chain of bridges, it were hard to tell 

How it is linked with all my early joy. 
There was a little foot that I loved well. 

It danced across them Avhen I was a boy ; 
There was a careless voice that used to sing ; 
Th(!re was a child, a sweet and happy thing. 

Oft through that matted wood of oak and bircli 
She came from yonder house upon the hill ; 

She crossed the wooden bridges to the church, 
And watched, with village girls, my boasted skill : 

r.ut loved to watch the floating lilies best. 

Or linger, peering in a swallow's nest ; 

Mngcr and linger, with lier wistful eyes 
Drawn to the lily-buds that lay so white 

And soft on ciimson water ; for the skies 

Would ciimson, and the httle cloudlets bright 



222 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Would all be flung among the flowers slieei- ilown, 
To Hush the spaces of their clusteriug crown. 

Till the gi-een rushes — 0, so glossy green — 
The rushes, they would whisper, i-ustie, shake ; 

And forth on floating gauze, no jewelled queen 
So lich, the green-eyed dragon-flies would break, 

And hover on the flowers — aerial things, 

With little rainbows flickering on their wings. 

Ah ! my heart dear ! the polished pools lie still, 
Like lanes of water reddened by the west, 

'fill, swooping down from yon o'erhanging hill, 
Tiie bold niai-sh harrier wets her tawny breast ; 

Wii scared her oft in childhood from her prey, 

And the old eager thoughts rise fi-esli as yestei-day. 

To yonder copse by moonlight I did gu. 

In luxniy of mischief, half atiaid, 
To steal the gi-eat owl's brood, her downy snow, 

Her screaming imps to seize, the while she pieyed 
W'ith yellow, cruel eyes, whose radiant glare, 
F(ill with their mother rage, I might not dare. 

1 'anting I lay till her great fanning wings 

Troubled the dreams of rock-doves, slumbering nigl 

And she and her flerce mate, like evil things, 
Skimmed the dusk fields ; then rising, with a cry 

Of fear, joy, triumph, darted on my prey. 
And tore it from the nest and fled away. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 223 

But afterward, belated in the wood, 

I saw her moping on the rifled tree, 
And my heart smote me for her, while I stood 

Awakened from my careless reverie ; 
So tt'iiite she looked, with moonlight round her shed. 
So motherlike she drooped and hung her head. 

that mine eyes would cheat me ! I behold 

The goduits i-unning by the water edge, 
The mossy bridges mirrored as of old ; 

The little curlews creeping from the sedge, 
But not the little foot so gayly light 
that mine eyes would cheat me, that I might ! — 

Would cheat me ! I behold the gable ends — 
Those purple pigeons clustering on the cote ; 

The lane with maples ovei-hung, that bends 
Toward her d. veiling ; the dry grassy moat, 

Thick niuUioiis, diamond-latticed, mossed and gray. 

And walls bunked up with hunvl and with bay. 

And up bc-liind them yellow fields of corn, 
And still ascending countless firry spires, 

Drv slopes of hills inicultured, bare, forlorn, 

And green in rocky clefts with whins and briers ; 

Thuii rich chnid masses dyed the violet's hue, 

Willi orange sunbeams dropping swiftly throup;h. 

Ay, 1 behold all this full easily; 

My soul is jealous of my happier eyes, 



224 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

A\v\ maaliood envies youth. Ah, strange to see, 

\\y looking merely, orange -flooded skies ; 
Nay, any dew-drop that may near me shine : 
Hut never more the face of p]glantine ! 

She was my one compmiion, being iierself 
The jewel and adornment of ni}' days, 

My life's completeness. O, a smiling elf, 
That I do but disparage with my praise — 

I\Iy playmate ; and I loved her dearly and long, 

And she loved me, as the tender love the strong. 

Ay, but she grew, till on a time there came 
A sudden restless yearning to my heart ; 

And as we went a-nesting, all for shame 

And shyness, I did hold my peace, and start ; 

Content departed, comfort shut me out. 

And there was nothing left to talk about. 

She had but sixteen years, and as for mo. 

Four added made my life. This pretty bird, 

This fairy bird that I had cherished — she. 
Content, had sung, while I, contented, heard. 

The song had ceased ; tlie bird, with nature's art, 

Had brought a thorn and set it in my heart. 

The restless birth of love my soul oppn-st, 
I longed and Avrestled for a tranquil day. 

And warred with that disquiet in my breast 
A.S one who knows there is a better wav ; 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 225 

Hut, turned against myself, 1 still in vain 
Looked Ibr the ancient calm to come again 

My tired soul could to itself confess 

That she deserved a wiser love than mine ; 

I'o love more truly were to love her less, 
And for this truth I still awoke to pine ; 

1 had a dim belief that it would be 

A better thing for her, a blessed thing for me. 

Good hast Thou made them — comforters right sweet ; 

Good hast Thou made the world, to mankind lent ; 
Good arc Thy dropping clouds that feed the wheat ; 

Good are Thy stars above the firmament. 
Take to Thee, take. Thy worship. Thy renown ; 
The good which Thou hast made doth wear Thy crown. 

For, my Gofl, Thy creatures are so frail. 

Thy bountiful creation is so fair. 
Tliat, drawn before us like the temple veil. 

It hides the Holy Place from thought and care, 
Givmg man's eyes instead its sweeping fold, 
Rich as with cherub wings and a[)ples wrought of gold 

Purple and blue and scarlet — shimmering bells 
And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim, 

Cilorious with chain and fretwork that the swell 
Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim, 

VOL. I. — 15 



226 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Till on a i\i\y comes loss, that God makes gain, 
And death and darkness rend the veil in twain. 



A.h, sweetest ! my beloved ! each outward thing 
Recalls my youth, and is instinct witli thee ; 

i^ro'f^TJ wfiod-OAvls in the dusk, with noiseless wing, 
Float from yon hanger to their haunted tree, 

And hoot full softly. Listening, I regain 

A flashing thought of thee with their remembered strain. 

I will not pine — it is the cai'eless brook. 

These amber sunbeams slanting down the vale ; 

It is the long tree-shadows, witli their look 
Of natural peace, that make my heart to fail : 

The peace of nature — No, I will not pine — 

But O the contrast 'twixt her face and mine ! 

And still I changed — I was a boy no more ; 

]\Iy heart was large enough to hold my kind, 
And all the world. As hath been oft before 

With youth, I sought, but I could never find 
Work hai'd enough to quiet my self-strife. 
And use the strength of action-craving life. 

She, too, was changed : her bountiful sweet eyes 
Looked out full lovingly on all the world. 

O tender as the deeps in yonder skies 

Their beamino; ! but her rosebud lips were curled 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 227 

With the soft dimple of a musing smile, 

Which kept ray gaze, but held me mute the while. 

A cast of bees, a slowly moving wain. 

The scent of bean-flowers wafted up a dell, 

Blue pigeons wheeling over fields of grain. 

Or bleat of folded lamb, would please her well ; 

Or cooing of the early coted dove ; — 

She sauntering mused of these ; I, following, mused ol 
love. 

With her two lips, that one the other pressed 

So poutingly with such a ti-anquil air, 
With her two eyes, that on my own would rest 

So dream-like, she denied my silent prayer, 
Fronted unuttered words and said them nay, 
And smiled down love till it had nought to say. 

The words that through mine eyes would clearly shine 
Hovered and hovered on my lips m vain ; 

[f after pause I said but " Eglantine," 
She raised to me her quiet eyelids twain, 

And looked me this reply — look calm, yet bland — 

"I shall not know, I will not imdorstand." 

Yet she did know my story — knew my life 

Was Avrought to hers with bindings many and strong 

That I, like Israel, served for a wife, 

And for the love I bare her thought not long, 



228 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

But only a few days, full quickly told, 
My seven years' service strict as his of old. 

I must be brief: the twilight shadows grow, 
And steal the rose-bloom genial summer sheds, 

And scented wafts of wind that come and go 
Have lifted dew from honeyed clover-heads ; 

The seven stars shine out above the mill. 

The dark delightsome woods lie veiled and still. 

Hush ! hush ! the nightingale begins to sing, 
And stops, as ill-contented with her note ; 

riien breaks from out the bush with hurried wing, 
Restless and passionate. She tunes her throat, 

Laments awhile in wavering trills, and then 

Floods with a stream of sweetness all the glen. 

The seven stars upon the nearest pool 

Lie trembling down betwixt the lily leaves, 

And move like glowworms ; wafting breezes cool 
Come down along the water, and it heaves 

And bubbles in the sedge ; while deep and wide 

The dim night settles on the country side. 

I know this scene by heart. ! once before 
I saw the seven stars float to and fro. 

And stayed my hurried footsteps by the shore 
To mark the starry picture spread below : 

Its silence made the tumult in ray breast 

More audible ; its peace revealed my own unrest. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 229 

I paused, then hurried on ; my heart beat quick ; 

I crossed the bridges, reached the steep ascent, 
And climbed through matted fern and hazels thick ; 

Then darkling through the close green maples went 
And saw — there felt love's keenest pangs begin — 
An oriel window lighted from within — 

I saw — and felt that they were scarcely cares 
Which I had known before ; I drew more near, 

And ! methought how sore it frets and wears 
The soul to part with that it holds so dear ; 

*Tis liard two woven tendrils to untwine, 

And I was come to part witli Eglantine. 

For life was bitter thi-ough those words repressed, 
And youth was burdened with unspoken vows ; 

Love unrequited brooded in my breast, 

And shrank, at glance, from the beloved lirows : 

And three long months, heart-sick, my foot withdrawn, 

I \v\fl not sought her side by rivulet, copse, or lawn — 

Not sought her side, yet busy thought no less 
Still followed in her wake, thougli fir behind ; 

And I. being parted from her loveliness, 
Looked at the picture of her in my mind : 

I lived alone, T walked with soul oppressed. 

And ever siglied for lier, and sighed for rest. 

Tjien T had risen to struggle witli my henrt. 

And suid — " O heart ! the world is fivsh and fair, 



230 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

And 1 am young ; but this tlij restless smart 

Changes to bitterness the morning air : 
1 will, I must, these weary fetters break — 
I will be free, if only for her sake. 

" O let me trouble her no more with sighs ! 

Heart-healing comes by distance, and with time : 
Then let me wander, and enrich mine eyes 

With the green forests of a softer clime, 
Or list by night at sea the wind's low stave 
And long monotonous rockings of the wave. 

" Through open solitudes, unbounded meads, 
Where, wading on breast-Iiigh in yellow bloom, 

Untamed of man, the shy white lama feeds — 
There would I journey and forget my doom ; 

Or far, O far as sunrise I would see 

The level prairie stretch away from me ! 

" Or 1 would sail upon the tropic seas. 

Where fatliom long the blood-red dulses grow, 

Droop from the rock and waver in the breeze, 
Lasliing the tide to foam ; wliile calm below 

The muddy mandrakes throng those watei-s warm, 

And purple, gold, and green, the living blossoms swarm. 

So of my father 1 did win consent, 

With importunities repeated long. 
To make that duty whicli had been my bent. 

To dig witli strangers alien tombs among, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 231 

And bound to them through desert leagues to pace, 
Or track up rivers to theii- starting-place. 

For this I had done battle and had won, 

But not alone to tread Arabian sands, 
Measure tlie shadows of a southern sun, 

Or dig out gods in the old Egyptian lands ; 
But for the dream wherewith I thought to cope — 
The grief of love unmated with love's hope. 

And now I would set reason in array, 

INIethought, and fight for freedom manfully, 

Till by long absence there would come a day 
When this my love would not be pam to me ; 

But if I knew my rosebud foir and blest 

I should not pine to wear it on my breast. 

The days fled on ; another week should fling 
A foreign shadow on my lengthening way; 

Another week, yet nearness did not bring 
A braver heart that hard farewell to say. 

I let the last day wane, the dusk begin, 

Kre 1 had sought that window lighted from within. 

Sinking and sinking, O my heart ! my heart ! 

Will absence lieal thee whom its shade doth 
rend ? 
1 reached the little gate, and sell within 

The oriel fell her shadow. She did lend 



232 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Her loveliness to me, and let me share 
The listless sweetness of those features fair. 

Among thick laurels in tluj gathering gloom, 

Heavy for this our parting, I did stand ; 
Beside her mother in the lighted room, 

Slie sitting leaned her cheek upon her hand 
And as she read, her sweet voice floating through 
The open casement seemed to moum me an adieu. 

Youth ! youth ! how buoyant are thy hopes! tliey turn, 

Like marigolds, toward the sunny side. 
My hopes were buried in a funeral urn, 

And they sprung up like plants and spread tliem 
wide ; 
Though I had schooled and reasoned them away, 
They gathered smiling near and prayed a holiday. 

Ah, sweetest voice ! how pensive were its tones. 
And hoAV regretful its unconscious pause ! 

" Is it for me her lieart this sadness owns, 
And is our parting of to-night the cause ? 

Ah, would it might be so ! " 1 thought, and stood 

Listening entranced among the underwood. 

I though! it would be something worth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, 

And take from tliem an answering look again : 

" When eastern palms," I tliought, " about me Hse, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 233 

If 1 miglit carve our names upon the riiul, 
Betrothed, I wouhl not moiini, though leaving lhe» 
behind.' 

I eau be patient, iaithtul, and most fond 

To unacknowledged love ; I can be true 
To this sweet thraldom, this unequal bond, 

This yoke of mine that reaches not to you : 
0, how much more could costly parting buy — 
If not a pledge, one kiss, or, failing that, a sigh ! 

I listened, and she ceased to read ; she turned 
Her face towards the laurels where I stood : 

Her mother spoke — wouder! hardly learned ; 
Slie said, " There is a rustling in the wood ; 

Ah, cliild ! if one di-aw near to bid farewell. 

Let not thine eyes an unsought secret tell. 

" My dangliter, there is nothing held so dear 

As love, if only it be hard to win. 
The roses that in yonder hedge appear 

Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within ; 
IJut since the hand may phicls them every day, 
Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away, 

' My daughter, my belo\ ed, be not you 
Like those same roses." bewildei-ing word ' 

My heart stood still, a mist obscured my view : 
It cleared ; still silence. No denial stirred 



234 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

The lips beloved ; but straight, as one opprest, 
She, kneeling, droi)ped her face upon her mother's 
breast. 

This said, " My daughter, sorrow comes to all ; 

Our life is checked with shadows manifold : 
But woman has this more — she may not call 

Her sorrow by its name. Yet love not told, 
And only born of absence and by thought. 
With thought and absence may return to nought." 

And my beloved lifted up her face, 

And moved her lips as if about to speak ; 

She dropped her lashes with a girlish grace. 
And the rich damask mantled in her cheek : 

I stood awaiting till she should deny 

Her love, or with sweet laughter put it by. 

But, closer nestling to her mother's heart, 

She, blushing, said no word to break my trance, 

For I was breathless ; and, with lips apart, 
Felt my breast pant and all my pulses dance. 

And strove to move, but could not for the weight 

Of unbelieving joy, so sudden and so great, 

Bei'ause she loved me. With a mighty sigh 
Breaking away, I left her on her knees, 

Vnd blest the laurel bower, the darkened sky, 
The sultry night of August. Through the trees. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 235 

Giddy w itb gladness, to the porch I went, 

And hardly found the way for joyful wondenaent. 

Yet, when I entered, saw her mother sit 

"With both hands cherishmg the graceful head. 

Smoothing the clustered hair, and partuig it 
From the Mr brow ; she, rising, only siiid, 

In the accustomed tone, the accustomed word, 

The careless greeting that I always heard ; 

And she resumed Iier merry, mocking smile, 

Though tear-drops on the glistening lashes hung. 

O woman ! thou wert fashioned to beguile : 
So have all sages said, all poets sung. 

She spoke of favoring winds and waiting ships, 

With smiles of gratulation on her lips ! 

And then she looked and faltered : I had gro^v^l 

So suddenly in life and soul a man : 
She moved her lips, but could not find a tone 

To set her mocking music to ; began 
One struggle for dominion, raised her eyes, 
And straight withdrew them, bashful tlu'ough surprise 

The color over cheek and bosom flushed ; 

I might have heard the beating of her heart. 
But that mine own beat louder ; when she blushed, 

The hand within mine own I felt to start. 
But would not change my pitiless decree 
To strive witli her for might and mastery. 



236 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

She looked agaia, as oue that, half afraid, 
Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing ; 

Or one beseeching " Do not me upbraid ! " 
And then she trembled like the fluttering 

Of timid little birds, and silent stood, 

No smile wherewith to mock my hardihood. 

She turned, and to an open casement moved 
With girlish shyness, mute beneath my gaze. 

And I on downcast lashes unreproved 

Could look as long as pleased me ; while, the rays 

Of moonlight round her, she her fair head bent, 

In modest silence to my words attent. 

How fast the giddy whirlhig moments flew ! 

The moon had set ; I heard the midnight chime < 
Hope is more brave than fear, and joy than dread. 

And I could wait unmoved the parting time. 
It came ; for, by a sudden impulse drawn, 
She, risen, stepped out upon the dusky lawn. 

A little waxen taper in her hand, 

Her feet upon the dry and dewless grass. 

She looked like one of the celestial band. 
Only that on her cheeks did dawn and {)ass 

Most human blushes ; while, the soft light thrown 

On vesture pure and white, she seemed yet fairer grow n 

[ler mother, looking out toward her, sighed. 
Then ^i^ve her hand in token of farewell. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 237 

And with her warning eyes, that seemed to chide, 

Scarce suffered that I sought her child to tell 
The story of" my life, whose every line 
No other hurdeii bore than — Eglantine. 

I } lack thunder-clouds were rising up behind, 

The waxen taper burned full steadily ; 
It seemed as if dark midnight had a mind 

To hear what lovers say, and her decree 
Had passed for silence, while she, dropped to ground 
With raiment floating wade, drank in the sound, 

happiness ! thou dost not leave a trace 
So well defined as sorroAV. Amber light, 

Shed like a glory on her angel face, 

I can remember fully, and the sight 
Of her fair forehead and her shining eyes. 
And lips that smiled in sweet and girlish wise. 

1 can remember how the taper played 

Over her small hands and her vesture white ; 
How it struck up into the trees, and laid 

Upon their under leaves unwonted light ; 
And when she held it low, how far it spread 
O'er velvet pansies slumbering on their bed. 

I can remember that we spoke full low. 

That neither doubted of the other's truth ; 
And that with footste])s slower and more slow, 



238 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

Hands folded close for love, eyes Avet for ruth : 
Beneath the trees, by that clear taper's tlame, 
We wandered till the gate of parting came. 

15ut I forget the parting words she said, 

80 much they thrilled the all-attentive soul ; 

Kor one short moment human heart and head 
JNIay bear such bliss — its present is the whole : 

1 had that present, till In wliispers fell 

With pai'ting gesture her subdued farewell. 

Farewell ! she said, in act to turn away. 
But stood a moment yet to dry her tears, 

And suffered my enfolding arm to stay 
The tune of her departure. ye years 

That intervene betwixt that day and this! 

You all received your hue from that keen pain and bliss. 

O mingled pain and bliss ! O pain to break 

At once from happiness so lately found. 
And four long years to feel for her sweet sake 

The uicompleteness ol' all sight and sound ! 
But bliss to cross once more the foaming brine — 

bliss to come again and make her mine ! 

1 cannot — 0, I cannot more recall ! 

But I will soothe my troubled thoughts to rest 
With musing over journeyings wide, and all 
Observance of this active-humored west, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 239 

And swarming cities steeped in eastern day, 
With swarthy tribes in gold and striped array. 

I turn away from these, and straight there will succeed 
(Shifting and changing at the restless will). 

Tnibedded in some deep Circassian mead. 

White wagon-tilts, and flocks that eat their fill 

Unseen above, while comely shepherds pass. 

And scarcely show their heads above the grass. 

— The red Sahara in an angry glow. 

With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed 

Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow, 
And women on their necks, from gazers veiled, 

And sun-swart guides who toil across the sand 

To groves of date-trees on the watered land. 

Again — the brown sails of an Arab boat, 

Flapping by night upon a glassy sea. 
Whereon the moon and planets seem to float. 

More bright of luie than they were wont to be. 
While shooting-stars rain down with crackling sound, 
And, thick as swarming locusts, drop to ground. 

Or far into the heat among the sands 

The gembok nations, snuflmg up the wind. 

Drawn by the scent of water — and the bands 
Of tawny-bearded lions pacing, blind 

With the sun-dazzle in their midst, opprest 

With prey, and spiritless for lack of rest 1 



240 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

What more ? Old Lebanon, the frosty-browed, 
Setting his feet among oil-olive trees, 

Heaving Iiis bare brown shoulder through a clouii ; 
And after, grassy Carmel, purple seas, 

Flattering his dreams and echoing in his rocks, 

Soft as the bleating of his thousand flocks. 

Enough : how vain tliis thinking to beguile, 
With recollected scenes, an aching breast ! 

Did not I, journeying, muse on her the while ? 
Ah, yes ! for every landscape comes impressed — 

Ay, written on, as by an iron pen — 

With the same thought I nursed about her then. 

Therefore let memory turn again to home ; 

Feel, as of old, the joy of drawing near ; 
Watch the green breakers and the wind-tossed foam, 

And see tlie land-fog break, dissolve, and clear ; 
Then thuik a skylark's voice far sweeter sound 
Than ever thrilled but over English ground ; 

And walk, glad, even to tears, among tlie wheat, 
Not doubting this to be the first of lands ; 

And, while in foreign words this murmuring, meet 
Some little village school-girls (with their hands 

Full of forget-me-nots), who, greeting me, 

I count their English talk delightsome melody ; 

And seat me on a bank, and draw them near, 
That 1 may feast myself with hearing it, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 241 

Till shortly they forget their bashful fear, 

Push back their flaxen curls, and round me sit — 
Tell me their names, their daily tasks, and show 
Where wild wood-strawberries in the copses grow. 

So passed the day in this delightful land : 

My heait was thankful for the English tongue — 

For English sky with feathery cloudlets spanned — 
For English hedge with glistening dewdrops hung. 

I journeyed, and at glowing eventide 

Stopped at a rustic inn by the wayside. 

That night I slumbered sweetly, being right glad 
To miss the flapping of the shrouds ; but lo ! 

A quiet dream of beings twain I had, 
Behind the curtain talking soft and low : 

Methought I did not heed their utterance fine, 

Till one of them said, softly, " Eglantine." 

I started up awake, 'twas silence all : 

My own fond heart had shaped that utterance clear ; 
And "Ah! " methought, "how sweetly did it fall, 

Though but in dream, upon the listening ear! 
I low sweet from other lips the name well known — 
l hat name, so many a year heard only from mine own ! " 

I thought awhile, then slumber came to me, 

And tangled all my fancy in her maze, 
\.m\ I w.is drifting on ;i ijilt at sea. 

v<-:. I —10 



242 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

The ucur ;ill ocean, and the far all haze ; 
Through the white polished water sharks did glide, 
And up in heaven I saw no stars to guide. 

" Have mercy, God ! " but lo ! my raft uprose ; 

Drip, drip, I heard the water splash from it ; 
My raft had wings, and as the petrel goes. 

It skimmed the sea, then brooding seemtid to sit 
The milk-white mirror, till, with sudden spring, 
She flew straight upward like a living thing. 

But strange ! — I went not also in that flight, 
For I was enterhig at a cavern's mouth ; 

Trees grew within, and screaming birds of night 
Sat on them, hiding from the torrid south. 

On, on I went, while gleaming in the dark 

Those trees with blanched leaves stood pale and stark 

The trees had flower-buds, nourished in deep night, 

vVnd suddenly, as I went farther in, 
Tliey opened, and they shot out lambent light ; 

Then all at once arose a railing din 
That frighted me : " It is the ghosts," I said, 
Ajid they are railing for tlieir darkness fled. 

" ! hope tliey will not look me in the face ; 

It fright(;th me to hear their laughter loud ;" 
I saw them troop before with jaunty pace, 

And one would shaku otf dust that soiled her shroud: 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 243 

Bill now, joy unhoped ! to calm my dread, 
Some moonlight fihered through a cleft o'erhead. 

I climhed the lofty trees — the blanched trees — 
'I'he cleft was wide enough to let me through ; 

! clambered out and felt the balmy breeze, 

And stepped on churchyard gi'asses wet with dew. 

U happy chance ! fortune to admire ! 

I stood beside my own loved village spire. 

And as I gazed upon the yew-tree's trunk, 
Lo, far-off music — music in the night ! 

So sweet and tender as it swelled and sunk ; 
It charmed me till I wept with keen delight, 

And in my dream, methought as it drew near 

The very clouds in heaven stooped low to hear. 

Beat high, beat low, wild heart so deeply stirred, 
For high as heaven runs up tlie piercing strain : 

The restless music fluttering like a bird 

Bemoaned herself, and dropped to earth again, 

Heaping up sweetness till I was afraid 

That I should die of grief when it did fade. 

And it DID fade; but while Avith eager ear 

1 drank its last long echo dying away, 
I was aware of footsteps that drew near. 

And round the ivied chancel seemed to stray : 
soft above tlie hallowed place tliey trod — 
Soft as the fall of foot that is not shod ! 



244 TflE FOUR BRIDGES. 

J turned — 'twas even so — yes, Eglantine ! 

For at the first I had divined the same ; 
I saw the moon on her shut eyelids shine, 

And said, " She is asleep : " still on she came ; 
Then, on her dimpled feet, I saw it gleara. 
And thought — "I know that this is but a dream.' 

My darling ! my darling ! not the less 

JNIy dream went on because 1 knew it such ; 

She came towards me in her loveliness — 

A thing too pure, methought, for mortal touch ; 

The rippling gold did on her bosom meet, 

The long white robe descended to her feet. 

The fringed lids dropped low, as sleep-oppressed ; 

Her dreamy smile was very fair to see. 
And her two hands were folded to her breast, 

With somewhat held between them heedfully. 
fast asleep ! and yet methought she Iviiew 
And felt my nearness those shut eyelids tlu'ough. 

She sighed : my tears ran dovm. for tenderness — 
" And have I drawn thee to me in my sleep ? 

Is it for me thou wanderest shelterless, 
W^ating thy steps in dewy grasses deep? 

if this be !" I said — " yet speak to me ; 

1 blaine my very dieani lor cruelty." 

Then from her stainless bosom slie did take 
Twr) Ix'jMiIfiiHS lilv liowcr-^ ih.il lav therein, 



THE FOUR BRIDGES 245 

And with slow-raoving lips a gestui't; make, 

As one that some forgotten words doth win : 
" They floated on the pool," methought she said, 
And water trickled from each lily's head. 

1 1 (h'opped upon her feet — I saw it gleam 

Along the ripples of her yellow hair, 
And stood apart, for only in a dream 

She would have come, methought, to meet me tliere. 
She spoke again — " Ah fair ! ali fresh they sliiiu' ! 
And there are many lelt, and these are mine." 

I answered her with flattering accents meet — 
" Love, they are whitest lilies e'er were blown." 

" And sayest thou so ? " she sighed in murmurs sweet; 
" I have nought else to give thee now, mine o\vn ! 

For it is night. Then take them, love ! " said she : 

" They have been costly flowers to thee — and me." 

Willie thus she said I took them from her hand. 
And, overcome with love and nearness, woke ; 

And overcome with ruth that she should stand 
Barefooted in the grass ; that, when she spoke, 

fir r mystic words should take so sweet a tone, 

And of all names her lips should choose " My own " 

I rose, I journeyed, neared my home, and soon 
Beheld the spire peer out above the hill • 

It was a sunny harvest afteriv)on. 

When by the churchvurd wicket, standing still, 



246 THE FOUR BRIDGES. 

I cast my eager eyes abroad to know 

If change had touched the scenes of long a 



1 looked across the hollow ; sunbeams shone 
Upon the old house with the gable ends : 

" Save that the laurel trees are taller grown, 

No change," methought, " to its gray wall extends 

What clear bright beams on yonder lattice shine ! 

There did I sometime talk with Eglantine." 

There standing with my very goal in sight, 
Over my haste did sudden quiet steal ; 

I thought to dally with my own delight, 

Nor rush on headlong to my garnered weal, 

But taste the sweetness of a short delay, 

And for a little moment hold the bliss at bay. 

The church was open ; it perchance might be 
That there to offer thanks I might essay. 

Or rather, as I think, that I might see 

The place where Eglantine was wont to pray. 

But so it was ; I crossed that portal wide, 

And felt my riot joy to calm subside. 

The low depending curtains, gently swayed, 
Cast over arch and roof a criinson glow ; 

But, ne'ertheless, all silence and all shade 
It seemed, save only for the rippling flow 

Of their long foldings, when the sunset air 

Sighed through the casements of the house of prayer. 



THE FOUR BRIDGES. 247 

I fouud her place, the ancient oaken stall, 
Where in her childhood I had seen her sit, 

Most saint-like and most tranquil thei-e of all, 
Folding her hands, as if a dreaming fit — 

A heavenly vision had before her strayed 

Of the Eternal Cliild in lowly manger laid. 

1 saw her prayer-book laid upon the seat. 
And took it in my hand, and felt more near 

In fancy to her, finding it most sweet 

To think how very oft, low kneeling there, 

In her devout thoughts she had let me share. 

And set my graceless name in her pure prayer. 

My eyes were dazzled with delightful tears — 
In sooth they were the last I ever shed ; 

For with them fell the cherished dreams of years. 
I looked, and on the wall above my head, 

Over her seat, there was a tablet placed. 

With one word only on the marblt; traced. — 

/\h. well ! I would not overstate that woe, 
For I have had some blessings, little care ; 

i'.'it since the falling of that heavy blow, 

God's earth has never seemed to me so fair ; 

Nor any of his creatures so divine. 

Nor sleep so sweet ; — the word was — IHeSHSfNSfiWli. 



\ MOTHER SHOWING THE PORTRAIT OF 
HER CHILD. 

(p. M. L.) 




j^™ IVING CHILD or pictured cherub, 
Ne'er o'ermatched its baby grace ; 
And the mother, moving nearer. 
Looked it calmly in the face ; 
Then with slight and quiet gesture. 

And with lips that scarcely smiled, 
Said — "A Portrait of my daughter 
When she was a child." 



Easy thouglit was hers to fathom, 
Nothing hard her glance to read, 

F'or it seemed to say, " No praises 
For this little child I need : 

If you see, I see far better. 
And I will not feign to care 

For a sti"angcr"s ])rompt assurance 
That t!ie (iu-c is fair." 



THE CHILD'S POUTRAIT. 249 

Softly clasped and half extended, 

She her dimpled liands doth lay : 
So they doubtless placed tliem, saying — 

" Little one, you must not play." 
And while yet his work was growing, 

This the painter's hand hath shown, 
That the little heart was making 
Pictures of its own. 

Is it warm in that green valley, 

Vale of childhood, where you dwell ? 

Is it calm in that green valley, 

Round whose bournes such great hills swell? 

Are there giants in the valley — 
Giants leaving footprints yet ? 

Are there angels in the valley ? 
Tell me — I forget. 

Answer, answer, for the lilies, 

Little one, o'ertop you much. 
And the mealy gold within them 

You can scarcely reach to touch ; 
how far their aspect diifers, 

Looking up and looking down ! 
You look up in that gieen valley — 
Valley of renown. 

Are there voices in the valley, 
Lying near the heavenly gatef" 



250 ^i MOTHER SHOWING THE 

When it opens, do the hiirp-strhigs, 
Touched within, i-everberate ? 

When, like shooting-stars, the angels 
To your couch at nightfall go, 

Ai'e their swift wings heard to rustle ? 
Tell me ! for you know. 

Yes, you know ; and you are silent, 
Not a word sluill asking win ; 

Little mouth more sweet than rosebud, 
Fast it locks the secret in. 

Not a glimpse upon your present 
You unfold to glad my view ; 

Ah, what secrets of your future 
I could tell to you ! 

Smmy present ! thus I read it. 
By remembrance of my past : — 

Its to-day and its to-morrow 

Are as lifetimes vague and vast ; 

And each face in that green valley 
Takes for you an aspect mild, 

And each voice grows soft in saying — 
" Kiss me, little child ! " 

As a boon the kiss is granted : 
Baby mouth, your touch is sweet, 

Takes the love without the trouble 
From those lips that with it meet; 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 251 

Gives the love, pure ! O tender ! 

Of the valley where it grows, 
But the baby heart receiveth 

MOIU". THAN IT BKSTOWS. 

Comes tli(! future to the present — 

" Ah ! " she saith, " too blithe of mood ; 

Why that smile which seems to whisper — 
' I am happy, God is good ? ' 

God IS good: that truth eternal 
Sown for you in happier years, 

I must tend it in my shadow, 
Water it with tears. 

"Ah. sweet present ! I must lead thee 

By a daylight more subdued ; 
There nnist teach thee low to whisper — 

' I am mournful, God is good ! '" 
Peace,thou future! clouds are coming. 

Stooping from the mountain crest, 
But that sunshine floods the valley : 
Let her — let her rest. 

Comes tlie I'uture to the present — 

" Child," slie saith, " and wilt thou rest r 

How long, child, before thy footsteps 
Fret to reach yon cloudy crest ? 

Ah, the valley ! — angels guard it, 
liut the heights are brave to see ; 



252 A MOTHER SHOWING Thv. 

Looking down were long contentment: 
Come up, child, to me," 

So she speaks, but do not heed her, 
Little maid with wondrous eyes, 

Not afraid, but clear and tender, 
Blue, and filled with prophecies ; 

Thou for whom life's veil imlifted 
Hangs, whom warmest valleys fold, 

Lift the veil, the charm dissolveth — 
Climb, but heights are cold. 

There are buds that told within them, 
Closed and covered from our sight, 

Many a richly tuited petal, 
Never looked on by the light : 

Fain to see their shi'ouded faces, 
Sun and dew are long at strife, 

Till at length the sweet buds open — 
Such a bud is life. 

When the rose of thme own being 
Shall reveal its central fold, 

Thou shalt look within and marvel, 
Fearing what thine eyes behold ; 

What it shows and what it teaches 
Are not things wherewith to part ; 

Thorny rose ! that always costeth 
l>eatin<rs at the heart. 



PORTRAIT OF HER CHILD. 253 

Look in fear, for there is dimness ; 

nis unshapen float anigh. 
Look in awe, for this same nature 

Once the Godhead deigned to die. 
Look in love, for He dotli love it. 

And its tale is best of lore : 
Still humanity grows dearer. 

Being learned the more. 

Leani, but not the h-ss bethink thee 

How that all can mingle tears ; 
But his joy can none discover, 

Save to them that are his peers ; 
And that they whose lips do utter 

Language such as bards have sung — 
Lo ! their speech shall be to many 
As an unknown tongue. 

Learn, that if to tliee the meamng 

Of all other eyes be shown. 
Fewer eyes can ever front thee. 

That are skilled to read thine own ; 
And that if thy love's deep current 

Many another's far outflows, 
Th<>n thy heart must take forever, 
Lkss than it kkstows. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 

(Wntten for Thk Portfomo Society, October 1861.) 

HE yellow poplar-leaves came do\iii 

Aiid like a carpet lay, 
No waftings were in the sunny air 
To flutter them away ; 
And he stepped on blithe and debonair 
That warm October day. 

" The boy," saith he, " hath got his own, 

But sore has been the fight, 
For ere his life began the strife 

That ceased but yesternight ; 
For the will," he said, " the kinsfolk read, 

And read it not aright. 

" His cause was argued in the court 

P>efore his christening day. 
And counsel was heard, and judge demurred. 

And bitter waxed the fray ; 
Brother with brotlier spake no word 

Wlien they met in tlie way. 

" Against each one did each contend, 
And all against tlie heir. 



STRIFE AND PEACE. 255 

1 would not bend, for I knew the end — 

I have it for my share, 
And nought repent, though my first friend 

From lienceforth I must spare. 

" Manor and moor and farm and wold 

Tlieir greed begrudged him sore. 
And parchments old with passionate hold 

They guarded heretofore ; 
And they carped at signature and seal, 

But they may carp no more. 

" An old affront will stir the lieart 

Through years of rankling pain, 
And I feel the fret that urged me yet 

That warfare to maintain ; 
For an enemy's loss may well be set 

Above an infant's gain, 

" An enemy's loss I go to prove , 

Laugh out, thou little heir ! 
Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 

Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
For I come to set thee in thy place : 

Laugh out, and do not spare." 

A man of strife, in wrathful mood 

He neared the nurse's door ; 
With po[)lur-leaves the roof and oavts-s 

Were thickly scattered o'er. 



256 STRIFE AND PEACE. 

And yellow as they a sunbeam lay 
Along the cottage floor. 

" Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," 

He hears the fond nurse say ; 
" And if angels stand at thy right hand, 

As now belike they may, 
And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 

I fear them not this day. 

" Come wealth, come want to tliee, dear heart. 

It was all one to me, 
For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung 

Than coined gold and fee ; 
And ever the while thy waking smile 

It was right fair to see. 

" Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 
Who gi'udged and who transgressed ; 

Thee to retain I was full fain, 
But God, He knoweth best ! 

And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 
As the sunshine on thy breast ! " 

The man of strife, he enters in. 
Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 

Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow 
Trouble, and no release ; 

But the babe whose life awoke the strife 
Hath entered into peace. 



THE 

DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE 



<M\w* 







THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



SAW in a vision once, our mother-sphere 

The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, 
Rolling and rolling on and resting never. 
While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 
The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! raethought, how strange a doom to share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), 

Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 



2G0 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 

Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 
A comfortable glow, botli warm and dim. 
On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Right stately was his chamber, soft and white 
The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. 

What mattered it to him though all that night 

The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 

And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, 

That drave and drave and found no settling-place ? 

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, 
Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane ? 

He bare a charmed life against their shock, 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain ; 

Fixed in his right, and born to good estate. 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want apart, 

This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore), — 

This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
With all that it desired from every shore. 

He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — 

He stood upon his right his vi^hole life long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and content 

Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, 
As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 261 

Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 
Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 
A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 

AVhat cause had he to think on them, forsooth ? 

What cause that night beyond another night ? 
He was familiar even from his youth 

With their long ruin and their evil plight. 
Tlie wintry wind would search them like a scout, 
The water froze within as freely as without. 

He think upon them ? No ! They were forlorn. 
So were the cowering inmates whom they held ; 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alike. But there was rent, or long ago 

Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. 

For this they stood ; and what his thoughts might be 
That winter night, I know not ; but I know 

That, while the creeping flame fed silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 

The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 

He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; 

And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
Some person knelt between him and the flame : — 

A cowering figure of one; fr;iil and old, — 



262 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

A woman ; and she prayed as he descried, 

And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

'• Good Heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but he looked again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain, 
And spread her wasted hands and poor attire 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 

" I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cried ; 

" I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
" The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 

A pauper kneeling on my hearth " : and bowed 
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
" How dares she to intrude? What does she there? 

" Ho, woman, ho ! " — but yet she did not stir. 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 

" I '11 ring my people up to deal with her ; 

I '11 rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, 

Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 

Then in a rage, he shouted, " Who are you ? " 
For little in the gloom he might discern. 

" Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue 
The hour ! " but there was silence, and a stern, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 263 

Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried the dreaming man, right impiously, 
" "What have I done, that these my sleep affray ? " 

" God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." 

" God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, 

" I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

" Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here ! " 

And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there." 

" Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! " 
And he took heart at this so low behest, 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail. 

Demanding, " Is 't for her you break my rest ? 

S!ie went to jail of late for stealing wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 

" I sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass here." 

" Thou wilt not ! " quoth the Shadow, " thou wilt give 
Her story words " ; and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, 

A countenance of angered majesty. 



264 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
With that material Darkness chiding him, 

" If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 
And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

By reason of the place she holds to-night : 

She kneels between me and the warmth and light." 

" With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
And with the power," it said, " unto me given, 

I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, 
Or look no more upon the face of Heaven. 

Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, 

And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 

This when the Justice heard, he raised his hands. 

And held them as the dead in effigy 
Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. Tlie bands 

Of fate had bound him fast : no remedy 
Was left : his voice unto himself was strange. 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 

He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
Her life and mine began the selfsame day, 

And I am hale and hearty : from my store 
I never spared her aught : she takes her way 

Of me unheeded : pining, pinching care 

Is all the portion that she has to share. 

*' She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight. 
Through labor and through sorrow early old ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 265 

And I have koown of this her evil plight, 

Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 
A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 
She labored on my land the long year round. 

" What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to him ! 
He has not much against me. None can say 
I have not paid her wages day by day. 

" The spell ! It draws me. I must speak again ; 

And speak against myself ; and speak aloud. 
The woman once approached me to complain, — 

' My wages are so low.' I may be proud ; 
It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
" Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 



" She made her moan, ' My wages are so lovv.' " 

" Tell on ! " " She said," he answered, " ' 'Sly best 
days 

Are ended, and the summer is but slow 

To come ; and my good strength for work decajs 

By reason that I live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 

" And you replied," — began the lowering shade, 
" And I replied," the Justice followed on, 



266 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

" That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 

And if I raised the wages of the one 
Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 
The winter was as winters gone before. 

'' No colder and not longer." " Afterward ? " — 

The Phantom questioned. '' Afterward," he groaned, 

'' She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. ' Doth he so ? 

Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. ' Go ! 

" ' You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out 
She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about. 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again, or ever more 

She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

" Then ?" quoth the Shade ; and he, constrained, said on, 
" Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." 

" Hast met her since ? " it made demand anon ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay ; 

Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir : 

She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came : 

" And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking thought 
Upon her sober life and honest fame ? " 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 267 

" I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught ; 
" I gave it, Fiend, tlie usual care ; I took 
The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, 

" Because, — because their pilfering had got head. 

What vvouldst thou more ? The neighbors pleaded hard, 
'T is true, and many tears the creature shed ; 

But I had vovs^ed their prayers to disregard, 
Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 't is true 

She said so, but the poor are liars all. 
O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou ? Must I vievv 

Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 
Upon me miserable ? I have done 
No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

" Yet," quoth the Shade, " if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blaraelessness was brought, 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

" If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 

Her innocence and thy deplored wrong. 
Still thou art nought ; for thou shalt yet be blamed 

In that she, feehle, came before tliee strong, 



268 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, 

Because thou liadst been angered, worked her woe. 

" But didst thou right her ? Speak ! " Tlie Justice sighed. 
And beaded drops stood out upon his brow ; 

" How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 
" To a base beggar ? Nay, I will avow 

That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 

I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." 

" Hear him ! " the Phantom muttered ; " hear this man, 
O changeless God upon the judgment throne." 

With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, 
And lamentably he did make his moan ; 

While, with its arms upraised above his head, 

The dim dread visitor approached his bed. 

" Into these doors," it said, " which thou hast closed. 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 

Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed 

Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum ; 

Shall yet be interposed by day, by night. 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 

" Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

But what ! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 

Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod. 

Then? shall be no deliverance, saith my God." 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 2G9 

" Tc41 me thy name," the dreaniiug Justice cried ; 

" By what appointrneat dost thou doom me thus ? " 
" 'T is well that thou shoulJst know me," it replied, 

" For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us ; 
From thine own lips and life I draw my force : 
The name thy nation give me is Remorse." 

This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, without, 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

"O, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

" I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me: 

I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Now the first dream is told unto its end. 

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good. 
And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. 

It sparkled there like diamond-^, for the moon 

Was shining in, and niglit was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 



270 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 

And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old ; 
Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, 
Upon her trembling knees she held a book, — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn, 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne. 
Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, 

That for them desolate He died to win. 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." 

What thought she on, this woman ? on her days 
Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn ? 

I think not so ; the heart but seldom weighs 
With conscious care a burden always borne ; 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all the good this world can yield bereft ? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream. 

And it was this : that all at once she heard 
The pleasant babbling of a little stream 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. Til 

That ran beside her door, and then a bird 
Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 
And snow had mehed ; it was summer time ! 

And all the cold was over, and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said, " I will betake me to my door, 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight, 

How summer is come back, and frost is o'er. 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she cried, 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 

And while she looked, with marvelling measureless. 
The Angels stood conversing face to face. 

But neither spoke to her. " The wilderness," 
One Angel said, " the solitary place. 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full imxx 

The other Angel answered, " He shall reign." 

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, 
She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord." 

And straightway swept across the open skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word, 



272 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

That flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 

My Lord, my Loi'd ! " they sang, " and He shall reign ! ' 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, 
Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 

" Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." 

This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be. 
And she passed out between the blessed things. 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

0, all the happy world was in its best, 

The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
And these were dropping honey ; for the rest. 

Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go, 
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, 
And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee. 

And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 

And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, 

And folded his fair wings before his face. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 273 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 

As feeling for the sacred human feet; 
She said, " Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 

Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 
Except He bless me." Then, sweet ! O fair ! 
Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke, 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

" What wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke, 
" Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years, 

Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said : " My one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my j^earning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request. 
My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome. 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come." 

Here is the ending of the second dream. 

It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream. 

And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold ; 
With savory morning meats they spread the board, 
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. 
" Before you breakfast, sir? " his man replies. 

VOL. I. — 18 



274 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

" Ay," quoth lie quickly, and he will not taste 

Of aught before him, but in urgent wise 
As he would fain some carking care allay, 
Across the frozen field he takes his way. 

" A dream ! how strange that it should move me so, 
'T was but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore : 

" And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, 

And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

" For visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream ; 

I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude 

A little gold will buy me gratitude. 

" The woman shall have leave to gather wood, 
As much as she may need, the long year round ; 

She shall, I say, — moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore. 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 

With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 
Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time, — - 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 275 

(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 
And whistle of the wind along the mere 
Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. 

" If she be out, I have my pains for nought," 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 

But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought; 
And after pause, he doth unlatch the door 

And enter. No : she is not out, for see 

She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 

Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 
"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her 
straight, 

" Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall, 
She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 
He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 

Then doth the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn 

The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, their sordid iiunies he hiuh repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for him 

Is happiness no more. He doth repent, 
And now the light of joy is waxen dim, 



276 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Are all his steps toward the Highest sent ; 
He looks for mercy, and he waits release 
Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day. 

Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
Paceth behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream. 

The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry, — " The wilderness, 

The solitary place. 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face 
The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum. 
And shed for Him their balm : and He shall yield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 

" Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
AVith bashful tremblemcnt beneath His smile : 

And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat. 
The laughter of His lips — (thy kingdom come) : 
And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 277 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Raining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain : 
And valleys round about, 

" And all the well-contented land, made sweet 

With flowers she opened at His feet, 
Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Her cup being full to the brim. 

Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmo.^t sum, — 
Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, 

It shall not yet be long. 
Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again. 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — 

Thy kingdom come." 



SONGS 



THE VOICES OF BIRDS 




SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

INTRODUCTION. 

CHILD AND BOATMAN. 

ARTIN, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
" Yon do, sir ? " 

"Yes, I wonder how they come." 
" Well, boy, I wonder what you '11 wonder next ! " 
" But somebody must make them ?" 

" Sure enough." 
" Does your wife know ? " 

" She never said she did." 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
" I said she was a London woman, sir, 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish no such thing ; she knows enough. 
She knows too much already. Look you now, 
This vessel 's off the stocks, a tidy craft." 
" A schooner, Martin ? " 

" No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Only she 's schooner rigged, — a lovely craft." 



282 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" Is she for nie ? O, thank you, Martin, dear. 
What shall I call her ? " 

'' Well, sir, what you please." 
'' Then write on her ' The Eagle.' " 

" Bless the child ! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were, 
With eyes as yellow as gold." 

" O, Martin, dear, 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there 's nought to tell, 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
" Snored ? " 

" Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time. 
If I 'd had aught upon my mind just then, 
I would n't have walked that wood for unknown gold ; 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I 've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch. 
When she got low. I 've seen them plunge like stones, 
And come up fighting with a fish as long, 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail, — 
When they had struck its life out, — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed 
Grand as a ft-igate on a wind." 

" My ship, 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 283 

She must be called ' The Eagle ' after these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
When you go, in at dinner-time." 

" Not I." 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE 
UNSATISFIED HEART. 

WHEN in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous 
stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings, 
We think on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. 

But thou in the trance of light 

Stayest the feeding night, 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, 

And casts at our glad feet, 

In a wisp of fancies fleet. 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 

Her central thought full well 
Thou hast the wit to tell. 
To take tiie sense o' the dark and to yield it so; 



284 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

The moral of moonlight 
To set in a cadence bright, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did 
know. 

I have no nest as thou, 

Bird on the blossoming bough, 
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 

Chanting, " forego thy strife, 

The spirit out-acts the life. 
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive the whole. 

" Thou drawest a perfect lot 

All thine, but holden not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Than thine, far-seeing heart, 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." 



I 



SAND MARTINS. 

PASSED an inland-cliff precipitate; 
From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate. 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 285 

Fantastic chatter ! hasty, glad, and gay, 
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 

" Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day ? " 
" Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." 

And heark'ning. I was sure their little ones 
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns. 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 

Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand. 

And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, 
And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 

" When should the young be fledged and with them hie 
Where costly day drops down in crimson light .' 

(Fortunate countries of the firefly 

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, 

" And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land, 

Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand ? 

" When should they dip their breasts again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air. 

Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day. 
Stalking amid tlie lotus blossom fair? 



286 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" Tiien, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, 
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, 

And so betake them to a south sea-bight. 
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 

" Whose roots are in the spray. 0, haply there 

Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find 

A frigate standing in to make more fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts would fall. 

And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
strand, 

While northern talk would ring, and there withal 
The martins would desire the cool north land. 

" And all would be as it had been before ; 

Again at eve there would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 

' Gossip, how wags the world ? ' ' Well, gossip, 
well.' " 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OE BIRDS. 287 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE 
CUCKOO-BHiD. 

ONCE upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawn of day ; 
Windows open to the south, 
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 

She turned a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
" Poet, poet, what, asleep ! 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances olden, 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me, 
Drew me onward, " Come ! " said she ; 
And she moved with me apart, 
Down tlie lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard say, 
For some Fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place, 
Taking their accustomed pleasure, 
(All the clocks being stopped) to race 



288 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said, " What signified 
Faring home till eventide : 
There were pies on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not, fed, 
As it were, with angels' bread, 
Sweet as honey; yet next day 
All foredoomed to melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that was not. 

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling's courtship quaint, 
Heart made much of; 't was a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were. 
Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
And I saw the idle hills. 
In their amber hazes deep. 
Fold themselves and go to sleep. 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence ? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought. 
Having taken w^ings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the sky. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 289 

Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had fouud embodiment, 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep, 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 

" O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
" 'T is the voice of mi/ regret, — 
Mine ! " and I awoke. Full svyeet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet; 
And the voice it spake again. 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 
Of its clear, right innocent, 
Unreproved discontent. 

How it came — where it went — 
Who can tell ? The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
Trembled. I remembered me 
Of the springs that used to be, 
When a dimpled white-haired child, 
Shy and tender and half wild. 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way off the talking bird, 
And had felt it marvellous sweet, 
vol. I. — 19 



290 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

For it laughed : it did me greet, 

Calliug ine : jet, hid away 

In the woods, it would not play. 

No. 

And all the world about, 
While a man will work or sing. 
Or a child pluck flowers of spring. 
Thou wilt scatter music out. 
Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat. 
But not quite, — the wonder-rife, 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, 
That he searclieth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth ? 
And so wiimovviiig of thy wings, 
Touch and trouble his heart's strings, 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument. 
With a trembling upward sent, 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love. 

" 0, I hear thee in the blue ; 
Would that I might wing it too ! 
O to have what hope hath seen ! 
O to be what might have been ! 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 291 

" O to set my life, sweet bird, 
To a tune that oft I heard 
Wlien I used to stand alone 
Listening to the lovely moan 
Of the swaying pines o'erhead, 
While, a-gathering of bee-bread 
For tlieir living, murmured round, 
As the pollen dropped to ground, 
All the nations from the hives ; 
And the little brooding wives 
On each nest, brown dusky things. 
Sat with gold-du.-~t on their wings. 
Tlien beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the "tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fall, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what ; 
As if some right-joyous elf. 
While about his own affaii's, 
Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear. 
Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, 
Laughed a little to herself. 
Laughed a little as she rolled. 
Thinking on the days of old. 

" Ah ! there be some hearts, I wis, 
To which nothing comes amiss. 



292 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

Mine wae one. Much secret wealth 
I was heir to : and by stealth, 
When the moon was fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 
I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shoot a silver message down 
To the unseen sentinel 
Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

" Once, awhile ago, I peered 
In the nest where Spring was reared. 
There, she quivering her fair wings. 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And they fed her ; nights and days, 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
And her heart with love and praise. 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and water-springs, 
Sliaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), O once in forest wide, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred, 
And a calling iialf defined, 
And an answering from afar; 
Somewhat talked with a star, 
And the talk was of m iiikind. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 293 

" ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 
Float anear in upper blue : 
Art thou yet a prophet true ? 
Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 
Things that be, and have not been, 
Thou art free o' tlie world, for naught 
Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 
Nay, but make me music yet, 
Bird, as deep as my regret. 
For a certain hope hath set, 
Like a star ; and left me heir 
To a crying for its light. 
An aspiring infinite. 
And a beautiful despair ! 

" Ah ! no more, no more, no more 
I shall lie at thy shut door, 
Mine ideal, my desired, 
Dreaming thou wilt open it. 
And step out, thou most admired, 
By ray side to fare, or sit, 
Quenching hunger and all drouth 
With the wit of thy fair mouth, 
Showing me the wished prize 
In the calm of thy dove's eyes. 
Teaching me the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life, 
All its fairest possible sura, 
And the grace of its to corae. 



29-i SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" What a (liffereuce ! Why of kite 

All sweet music used to say, 

' She will come, and with thee stay 

To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 

Now it murmurs, ' Wait, wait, wait ! ' " 



A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I SAW when I looked up, on either hand, 
A pale high chalk-clifF, reared aloft in white ; 
A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 
Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 
Washed in the bight ; above with angry moan 

A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, 
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 

" Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wing^;. 
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood. 

For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, 
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 

" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair. 
None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe, 

Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, 
And steal thy little demons long ago. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 295 

" Tiiou madest many cliildless for their sake, 
And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 

Crj', thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake, 

Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night" 

Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew. 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

" Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. 

It is not blood : thy gods are making wine. 
They spilt the mu.-t outside their city gate, 

" And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
Tliey will not listen though thou cry aloud. 

Old Chance, thy datne, sits mumbling at her ease, 
Nor hears ; tlie fair hag. Luck, is in lier shroud. 

" They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign . 

Tliou hast no charm again.-t tlie i'avorite race ; 
Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 

There is no justice in their dwelling-place ! 

" Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie ; 

Their unborn sous may yet despoil thy nest : 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! cry, cry ! " 



29G SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 

WHEN I hear the waters fretting, 
When I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, " Alas the 
day! " 
Once with magical sweet singing, 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves 
away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
Sweet as air, and all beguiling; 
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down 
the dell ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years unborn would render. 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew 
it well. 

Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 

April 's here, and summer 's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride 
and joy ; 

Think on us in alleys shady. 

When you step a graceful lady ; 
For no fairer day have we to iiope for, little girl and boy. 



SONGS ON- THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 29/ 

" Laugh and play, O lisping waters, 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wander- 
ings coy ; 
When they wake we '11 end the measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a ' Hey down derry, let 's be merry ! little girl and 
boy ! ' " 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea. 
And said, " O world, how cold thou art ! 
Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 
For joy and warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

" The sea is cold, and dark its rim. 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cokl." 



298 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 

Where many mews made twittering sweet ; 

Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 
Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and wasiied it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy companied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 

That heaving sea, that shad'id sky, 
And in themselve-s, ani in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play ! 

What idless graced the twittering things ; 
Luxurious paddlings in the spray. 

And delicate lifting up of wings. 

Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 

Earth had not looked more changed to me. 

" Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
Have only dropt their curtains low 

To shade the old mother where she lies 
Sleeping a little, 'nealh the snow. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 299 

" Tlie cold is not in crag, nor soar, 

Not in the snows that lap the lea. 
Not in yon wiugs that beat afar, 

Delighting, on the crested sea ; 

"No, nor in yon exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 

Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 
No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine ! " 

With that I felt the gloom depart. 

And thoughts within me did unfold, 
Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart, — 

I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



LAURANCE. 



E knew she did not love him ; but so long 
As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 
At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 



He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor — it became him ; he was frank, 

Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came 

Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 

No more, but colored to his healthful brow. 

And wished himself a better man, and thought 

On certain things, and wished they were undone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the grace 

Of her umblemished pureness, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — that world 

Which he must walk in, — while from her (and such 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 



LAURANCE. 301 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
And at her first enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her 
And like to what he thou^^ht her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 

To these, one daughter had been born, one child. 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange; 
There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
IVIarried a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
Under her fathfjjr's roof, as they had planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
Tlie house witii children ; four were born to them. 
Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 

Among the poor. The curate, never slack 

In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, 



302 LAURANCE. 

Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of that pretty flock : his girls. 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise. 
That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, 
Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she t^ighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
O, when you see this other little face, 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

Slie said, 
"1 shall not live to see it"; but she did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bi'ight 
When she would plead with them : " Take me away, 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then all they journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the >sun, 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
Warmed them and calmed the achins at their hearts. 



LAU RANGE. 303 

And all went better for a while ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange-trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very still : 
One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
Lut down her basket from her head, but paused 
AVitli pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast, — 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 

The fading mother could not stay behind, 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life. 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 

After, these three, who loved each other well. 
Brought their one child away, and they were best 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The lather with the mother talked of her. 
Their daughter, but the husband nevermore ; 
He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, 
Until the grandsire prayed tliose other two 
" Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
Let him have all advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman." 

VVitli that they parted IVoiu tiieir boy, and lived, 



304 LAU RANGE. 

Longing between his holidays, and time 

Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 

His father loved him, wished to make of him 

Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 

Murmured at that: " No, no, tliey learned bad ways, 

They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 

Tliat many rued the day they sent their boys 

To college " ; and between the two broke in 

His grandsire : " Find a sober, honest man, 

A scholar, for our lad should see the world 

While he is young, that he may marry young. 

He will not settle and be satisfied 

Till he has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel iu my youth, 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A sober man being found to trust him with, 

One with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful father chose 

A tutor, young, — the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ten years older than her boy, 

And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 

Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, 

And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, 

And Ai'ctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. 

Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard 



LA URANCE. 305 

Nij^htly the whistling calls of forest-men 

That mo(;ked the forest wonners ; and they saw 

Over the open, raging up like doom, 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes, — 

The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for a while, 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons iiard by their seats, 

But all the air is stirring with them still, 

The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 

Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 
Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Only to ride to cover." 

Not the le-s 
Tiie grandsire pondered. "Ay, the boy must work 
Or SPEND ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now, 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns, 
He has been made familiar." Thus a month 
VOL. I. — 20 



308 LA U RANGE. 

Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 

The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 

Ever expectant of it knew not what, 

But something higher than has e'er been born 

Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 

And as for him, — the while they thought and though 

A comfortable instinct let him know 

How they had waited for him, to complete 

And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 

At home, but with a sense of newness there, 

And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 

He oft — invading of his father's haunts, 

The study where he passed the silent morn — 

Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 

The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake 

To guide with him by night the tube, and search. 

Ay, think to find new stars ; then risen betimes, 

Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 

Of his hale graudsire. 

But a day came round. 
When, after peering in his mother's room, 
Shaded and shuttered from tlie light, he oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
Ensconced and happy in her special pride. 
Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 
Here after choice of certain cates well known, 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, 
Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, 



LA URANCE. 307 

As if a new thought came, " Goody," quoth he, 
"What, thuik you, do they want to do with me? 
What have they phmned lor me that 1 !^hould do?" 

"Do, laddie! " quoth she faltering, half iu tears ; 
"Are you not happy with us, not content? 
Why would ye go away ? There is no need 
Tliat ye should do at all. O, bide at home. 
Have we not plenty ? " 

'• Even so," he said ; 
" I did not wi.-,h to go." 

'• Nay, then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
What, is the hor.-^e your father chose for you 
Not to your mind? He is? Well, well, remain ; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 

But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
With comical discomtiture. 

" What, then," 
She sighed, "what is it, child, that you would like?" 
" Why," said he, "■ farming." 

And she looked at him, 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
Some fitness in the worker tor the work, 
And she found none. A certain grace there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the face. 
Sun-browned and healthful beau[y that had come 



308 LA U RANGE. 

Yrom his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 

A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 

He walks ; wh}-^, how he walks ! if I should meet 

Oue like him, whom I knew not, I should a>k, 

'And who may that be?'" So the foolish thouglit 

Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, lialf ashamed, 

" We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 

And with engaguig sweet audacity 

She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up. 

With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 

" And hav'n't you done it ? " Quoth she, lovingly, 

" I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 

" Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 

It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 

To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 

I think of getting into mischief else ! " 

" No! do ye, laddie? " quoih the dame, and laughed. 

" But ask my grandfather," tlie youth went on, 

" To let me have the farm he bought last year, 

The little one, to manage. I likt; land ; 

I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way 

Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word, 

And that same night ui)on the matter spoke, 

In presence* of the father and the son. 

" Rogei-," quoth she, " our Laurance wants to farm; 
I think he might do worse." The father sat 
Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in 



LAU RANGE. 309 

Set ali his wish and his ambition forth ; 

But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 

And made conditions with a faint demur. 

Then pausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 

" I am content if he is " : at his word 

The parson took him, ay, and, pardon like. 

Put a religious meaning in the work, 

Man's earliest work, and wished his sou God speed. 



Thus all were sati.-fied, and day by day, 

For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 

Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 

Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 

A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 

Of sight and heai'ing to the delicate 

Beauty and music of an alter(;d world ; 

Began to walk in that mysterious light 

Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives 

Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, 

Intenser meaning; in disquieting 

Lifts lip ; a shining light : men call it Love. 

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 
A silent creature, thought fid, grave, sincere. 
She never turned from him with sweet caprice. 
Nor changing moved his soul to troid)lons hope. 
Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low. 



310 LAURA NCE. 

But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 
And ere his words were ready, passing on, 
Had left him all a-trerable ; yet made sure 
That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, 
And could not get his head above its wave 
To reach the far horizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 

'T was thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 
Across the cliurchyard path he walked ; tlie clock 
Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, 
Half turning, throu'j;h a sense that came to him 
As of some presence in it, he belield 
His love, and she liad come for shelter there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, 
The blush of happiness ; and one held up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
Toward it, sitting by her. O her eyes 
Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 
One moment in the unbraced lover's face 



LA URANCE. 311 

While he was passing in the snow ; and he 
Received the story, while he raised his hat 
Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked the cold, 
And walked as one that had no starting-place 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part, 
Where from the hillside gravel had been dug^ 
And he was conscious of a cry, and went 
Dulled in his sense, as though he heard it not ; 
Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, 
Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
Against the bushes, crying, '' God ! O God, 
O my good God, He sends us help at last." 

Then looking hard upon her, came to him 
The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed. 
And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. 

" I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears ; 
" Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, 
As praying him to take it ; and hi; did; 
And gave to Ik^f the shawl, and swathed his charge 



312 LAU RANGE. 

In the foldings of his plaid ; and when it thrust 

Its small round face against his breast, and felt 

With small red hands for warmth, — unbearable 

Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, 

For the poor upland dwellers had been out 

Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, 

Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, 

Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 

Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, 

That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 

Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling throu'rii 

The great white storm coming, and coming yet. 

And coming till the woi'ld confounded sat 

With all her iair familiar features gone. 

The mountains muffle<l in an eddying swirl, 

He led or bore them, and the little one 

Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft would mourn 

The elder, " They will beat me : O my can, 

I left ray can of milk upon the moor. 

And he compared her trouble with his own. 

And had no heart to s|)eak. And yet 't wa-^ keen ; 

It filled her to the putting down of pain 

And hunger, — what could his do more? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and suddenly 
Regained himself, and wondering at himself. 
That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, 
The weary wailing of the girl : he paid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say, 



LAURANCE. 313 

" Peace, we have feared for you ; forget the milk, 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 

"With dusk he was at home, and felt it good 

To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking, endless echo in his soul, 

" It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 

But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 

His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter ; peace, 

It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 

Was as it had been, and his father's heart 

Was easy, knowing not how that same day 

Hope with her tender colors and deliglit 

(He should not care to have liim know) were dead ; 

Yea, to all these, his neare.-t and most dear, 

It was no matter. And he heard them talk 

Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields. 

And prolltable market-;. 

All for him 
Their plans, and yet the eciioes swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever then; was pause; 
"It is no matter!" And his greater self 
Aro.-e in him and fought. " It matters much. 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 



814 LAURANCE. 

What ! shall I make these three to drink of rue, 
Because my cup is bitter ? " Aud he thrust 
Himself in thought away, aud made his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they spoke. 
As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane. 
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved : his speech 
Faltered ; but when the common kindly words 
Of greeting were all said, and she passed on. 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
''Muriel!" he cried; and when she heard her name, 
She turned. " You know I lor y you," he broke out : 
She answered " Yes," and sighed. 

'• ))ardon me. 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; " let me vest 
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw you once of late 
To call you wife?" "I hope so," she replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bioom came. 
As thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A quickened sense of his great impotence 



LAU RANGE. 315 

To drive nway the doom got hold on him ; 
lie set his teeth to force the unbearable 
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, aad in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

'' Farewell," he said. 
Recovering words, and wlien she gave her hand, 
" My thanks for your good candor ; ibr I feel 
That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
But keep this matter from your friends and kin, 
We would not have it known." Then cold and proud. 
Because there leaped from under his straight lids. 
And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
" He wills it, and I therefore think it well." 
Thereon they parted ; but from that time forth, 
Whether they met on festal eve, in field, 
Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, 
The disapproval hastily betrayed 
And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'T was a grace," 
She thouglit, " to tell this man the thing he asked, 
And he rewards me with surprise. 1 like 
No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 



316 LAURANCE. 

Where he oestowed it." 

But the spring came on : 
Looking to wed in April all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she felt 
Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, 
The rapture that was satisfied with light, 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spruig. 

And as for him, — (Some narrow hearts there are 

That suffer blight when that they fed upon 

As something to complete their being fails. 

And they retire into their holds and pine. 

And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 

That in a sacred want and hunger rise, 

And draw the misery home and live with it. 

And excellent in honor M'ait, and will 

That somewhat good should yet be found in it. 

Else wherefore were they born ?), — and as for him, 

He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 

The sunshine of thi'ee lives. The cln^erful grange 

Threw open wide its hospitable doors 

And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, 

Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 

In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 

And if he did but laugh the ear approved. 



LAURANCE. 317 

What then ? He dwelt among them as of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on, 
Till on a morning, when the perfect spring 
Rested among her leaves, he journeying liorae 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town. 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
Got out. He noted them, but walking on 
Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, 
And she was sitting on a rustic seat 
That overlooked the line, and he desired 
With longing indescribable to look 
Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
He felt that she was waiting for her lord. 
She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, 
But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not able yet 
To force himself away, and never more 
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, 
And wild anemone, for many a clump 
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
The stopping train, and felt that he must go; 
His time was come. There was nought else to do 



318 LA URANCE. 

Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, 

And would have had her take it from liis hand ; 

But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, 

And then remembering him and his long love, 

She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget, 

Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes 

Softer)ed ; but he was dumb, till through the trees 

Suddenly broke upon their quietude 

The woman and her child. And Muriel said, 

" What will you ? " She made answer quick and keen, 

" Your name, my lady ; 't is your name I want. 

Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, 

But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, 

As if considering in how short a while 

It would be changed, she lifted up her face 

And gave it, and the little child drew near 

And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 

Tlien Laurance, not content to leave them so. 

Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke, — 

'• Your errand with this lady ? " — " And your right 

To ask it ? " she broke out with sudden heat 

And passion : " What is that to you ! Poor child ! 

Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face 

And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 



" That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, 
" Tiiat man with whom you think to wed so soon. 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 



LA L'JiAACE. 319 

Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
Better tlian he, — that I i^hould say it ! — far 
Better." And down her face the large tears ran. 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up. 
Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
And Laurance stared about him half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so blithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, 
Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
We^re quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : " This is not we'.l, 

Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong ; 

A man that could desert and plan to wed 

Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 

Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 

If you be come this day to urge a claim. 

You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 

' T is only, if I read aright, the old, 

Sorrowful, hateful story!" 

Muriel sighed. 
With a dull patience that he marvelled at, 
" Be plain with me. I know not what to think. 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife ? 
Be plain with me." And all too qiietly, 
With running down of tears, the answer came, 
" Ay, madam, ay ! tlie worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lo\er's foot anear. 



320 /-i URANCE. 

And cried upon him with a bitter cry, 

Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 

With such affright, and violent anger stirred 

He broke from out the thicket to her side, 

Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 

She sat ; and, stepping clo^e, tliat woman came 

And faced him. Tlien said Muriel, " O my heart, 

Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, 

And lifted up his hand and looked at it, 

And at the woman ; but a man was there 

Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself 

Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 

And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. 

" What good," quoth he, " though you and I should strive 

And wrestle all this April day ? A word. 

And not a blow, is what these women want: 

Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 

With passion and great anguish, flung himself 

Upon the seat and cried. " lost, my love ! 

O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the woman spoke, 

" Sir, 't was an evil day you wed with me ; 

And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 

Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you. 

Not for myself, nor for your child. I know 

We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; " have done ; 

Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 

Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed ! 

All 's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, 

O sweet, forgive me." 



LAU RANGE. 321 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away : her little singing child 
Went in her wake : and Muriel dropped her hands, 
And sat before these two that loved her so, 
INIute and unheeding. There were angry words, 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed. 
And presently, and soon, O, — he was gone. 

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, 
Remained beside her ; and she put her hand 
Before her face again, and afterward 
Slie heard a voice, as if a long way off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Iler passive from her seat. So then slie knew 
That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
]t was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and lineage high, 
Had in her youth, and for a place and liomc, 
]\Iarried the stern old rector ; and the girl 
Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in. 
And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart. 
And laid before them all the cruel thing, 

VOL. I. — 21 



322 LAURANCE. 

As he had seen it. After, he retired : 

And restless, and not master of himself, 

He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 

And all things, even to the spreading out 

Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, 

Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace 

And glory an I great light on mountain heads, — 

All things were leagued against him, — ministered 

By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
He would have purchased for her with all piayei-s. 
And costly, passionate, despairing tears ? 
O what to her that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his own ? 

She let him see her, and she made no moan, 

But talked full calmly of indifferent things. 

Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 

And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 

With " This I cannot bear !" and shamed to feel 

11 is manhood giving way, and utterly 

Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, 

?ilade haste and from tlie window sprang, and paced, 

Battling and ciiiding with himself, the mu/e. 

Slic suffered, and he could not make her well 
I'^or all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
And now his pa-sionate nature, set astir, 



LA URANCE. 323 

Fought with the paia that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing suddenly aware 
That it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 
Against the misery : then he made all worse 
With tears. But when he came to her again, 
AVilUng to talk as they had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
" I know you have been crying " : and she bent 
Her own fair head and wept. 

She felt the cold — 
Th(i freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for thi:^ passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart. 
And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. 



III. 



And after that, though oft he sought her door, 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

" She is not well " ; and afterwards, '• Her wish 

Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 

They took her from the place, because so fast 

Slu- fa led. As for him, thougli youth and strength 

Can bear the weiglit as of a world, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said, 

When autumn came, " The poor sweet thing will die: 

That shock was mortal." And he card no more 

To hide, if yet he could have hidd-n, the blight 



324 LA URANCE. 

That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 
To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 
Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to them, 
Praying tliat he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 

To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 

And as for her that was to die so soon. 

What did it signify ? She let him weep 

Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 

Pitying words, and then they made him go. 

It was enough they said, her time was short. 

And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 

The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 

Bfing satisfied in that great longing now. 

And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door of death, that opened not 
To take her in ; for when the days once more 
Began a little to increase, she felt, — 
And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
And (h-eamed that she was walking in that wood 
With her two feet among tlie primroses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
And walked : the tender leaf and tender light 
Did pol.ice her ; but she was wliite and vv:ni, 



LAURANCE. 325 

The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood 
Who listened to those deadly words. 

And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft. 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer. 
She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 
She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot 
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
'* Laurance ! " And all impatient of unrest 
And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, 
Wlien he drew near, with tired, tired lips, 
As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
" Why have you done this thing ? " He answered her, 
" I am not always master in the fight : 
I could not help it." 

" What ! " she sighed, " not yet ! 
0, I am sorry " ; and she talked to him 



32G LAU RANGE. 

As one who looked to live, imploring him, — 
" Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me ! " 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to learn, 
Or were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
This pain is part of life and being now, — 
It is myself; but yet — but I will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
She bade him think of them. And not her words, 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life, 
And all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she grows stronger " ; but when autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 
To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
In the spirit with bestowal. But for her. 
This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved. 
Not only from her present had withdrawn. 
But from her past, and there was no such man, 
There never had been. 

He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and hold* 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast. 



LAURANCE. 327 

Till, after transient stay, all unaware 

It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 

In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile ; 

For who by choice would part with that pure bird, 

And lose the exaltation of its song? 

Hi3 had not strength of will to keep it fast. 

Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 

OF thought to make the echo sound for him 

After the song was done. Pity that man : 

His music is all flown, and he forgets 

The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 

'T was no great matter. But he was not vile, 

Only a thing to pity most in man. 

Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 

But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 

Would fain have hidden him forevermore. 

Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, 

Su full of household kindness. Ah, so good 

And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 

Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 

In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed. 
As Muriel learned, was sick, wa^ poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
From her small store, money to help her need. 
With, " Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 

What more ? She died. 



328 LA URANCE. 

Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly. 
Wrote of the end. '' Our sister fain had seen 
Her husband ; prayed him sore to come. But no. 
And then she prayed iiim that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died. 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone — ' I neither can forgive, 
Nor would I if I could.' " 

'' Patience, my heart ! 
And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 

But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote 
Telling the story with a different hue. 
Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." 
And she rose up against it in her soul, 
For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these word-', — 
" Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 

And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, 
Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, " I rose up once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, " It is the end." 

But when that other heard, " It is the end," 



LAU RANGE. 329 

His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will 
Required it of him with a craving strong 
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. 

She, when she saw his face, considered him 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

Not answered, and considered yet again. 

" He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came ? " 
What could he do, indeed? — a weak white girl 
Held all his heartstring-i in her small white hand ; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers. 
And not his own. 

She looked, and pitied him, 
Tlien spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah, me ! that I might get away from it, 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not. 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, so short." And roused against himself 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
Her to disquiet whom he loved ; ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest. 
If there were any left to give ; he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying pardon ; but some tears 
Droppi^d quietly upon her cheek. 



380 LAU RANGE. 

" Remain," 
She said, " for there is something to be told. 
Some words that you must hear. 

" And first hear this: 
God has been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like evening in my soul. I liave no heart. 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked. 
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far otherwise than she had willed, — they said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on, 
Cold and so quiet, '' I have suffered much. 
And I would fain that none who care for me 
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
"I have brought my mind of late to think of this: 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly. 
My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

"Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Remote, and left not in your house and life 



LA U RANGE. 331 

Aught to remind you ? That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife, 
And let tlie sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end ? 
I think not so; but if for you 'tis best, 
Tiien, — do not answer with too sudden words: 
It matters much to you ; not much, not much 
To me, — then truly I will die your wife ; 
I will marry you." 

What was he like to say, 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart. 
Cherish it, make it part of liira, and watch 
Those eyes that were his light till they should close? 

He answered her with eager, faltering words, 

"I choose, — my heart is yours, — die in my arms." 

But was it well ? Truly, at first, for him 

It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 

" When may this be ? " She answered, " When you will," 

And cared not much, for very faint >\\e grew. 

Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 

"If I could slip away before tiie ring 

Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 

Yov both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 

But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 

Was over : days and months had come, and Death, — 



332 LA UllANCE. 

Within whose shadow she had lain, which made 

Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, 

Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 

Woke up, and found that it was folded fast. 

Drawn to another life forevermore. 

O, what a waking! After it there came 

Great silence. She got up once more, in spring. 

And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 

She thought within herself, " What have I done ? 

How shall I do the rest ? " And he, who felt 

Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. 

"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, 

When she began to look him in the face. 

Considering, " Thus and thus his features are," 

For she had never thought on them before. 

She read their grave repose aright. She knew 

That in the stronghold of his heart, held back. 

Hidden reserves of measureless content 

Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. 

Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home, 
She took the place they gave her, — sti'ove to please 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
" What have I done ? how shall I do the rest ? 
Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this wife 
That loves you not, for all the stateliness 
And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
In your blue eyes." And after that awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 



LAURANCE. 333 

And waited. She had thought on death before : 
But no, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
And when she saw her Httle tender babe, 
She felt how much the happy days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful, A tiny thing, 
Wliom when it slept the lovely mother nursed 
With reverent love, wliom when it woke she fed 
And wondered at, and lo>t herself in long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee. 
Her husband and his father standing nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And the thought was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked. 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love 
'IVnder and strong. He kissed iier, kissed his babe, 
With " Goody, you are left in charge, take care " — 
'•As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And tliey were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
Gazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride, 
Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said, 



334 LAURANCE. 

"Is she so like ? D.-ar granny, get me now 
The picture that his i'atlier has " ; and soon 
The old woman put it in her hand. 

The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange dehght, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 
A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 
A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair 
Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 
Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 
The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
S'ue kept it; while her beauty and her babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are you happy ? " never said to her, 
"Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er 
They I'ode together in the lanes, and paused. 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
Tliat topped the mountains, — when she sat by him. 
Withdrawn at even while the summer stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new made, 
She felt a little trouble, and a wish 



LA URANCE.. 335 

That he would yet keep t^ilence, and he did. 
That one reserve lie would not touch, but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, 
"For this is the right sort, a boy." " Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; but never heed you, love, 
lie thinks them both as right as right can be." 

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go. 
But still he said, " I must " : and slie was left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
Was like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

"Ay, love," the dame made answer; " fur he said, 

* Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude appear to you. 

S;iy what you know.'" "What?" Muriel said, and 

laughed, 
"I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love, 



336 LAU RANGE. 

Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He 's gone. He came, our Laurauce met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
'And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon ? ' " 

" Mercy ! " Muriel cried, 
'' But Laurance does not wish it ? " 

" Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
" He does not, surely, think 1 should." 

" Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
"Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best ? " 

And Muriel, trembling yet, 
Agreed. " I heard him say," the darae went on, 
" For I was with him when they met that day, 
•It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" 

Then Muriel, pondering, — '-And he said no more? 

You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" 

And with her soft, calm, inward voice, I he dame 

Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, not he : 

What need he care ? " " And why not ? "' Muriel cried, 

Longing to hear the answer. " O, he knows. 

He knows, love, very well " : with that she smiled. 

"Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 

He did not know you loved him?" 



LAURANCE. 337 

Muriel said, 
"He never told me, goody, that he knew." 
" Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, my dear. 
That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
"Why need to rouse them ? You are happy, sure ? 
But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it sets 
The thoughts a-vvorking. No, say I, let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
'It would not be agreeable to my wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited you. 
To write a few kind words." 

" Yes," Muriel said, 
"I can do that." 

"So Lau ranee went, you see," 
The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the child. 
And now, at last, the father made it known 
He could not fake him. He lias lost, they say, 
His money, with much gambling ; now he wants 
To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote. 
And let this so be seen, that Laurance went 
And took the child, and took the money down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking sweet. 
And asked once more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, " And you think 
He knows I love him ? " 
VOL I. — 22 



838 LAURANCE. 

" Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 
His father never asked my pretty child 
One prying question ; took her as she w^as ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Lau ranee is the same. 
He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such "entlemen ! " 



SONGS 



THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 
{Old English Planner.) 

APPRENTICED. 




OME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet 
hoot, the owlet hoot ; 
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim 
behind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft 
with me, ! " 

" My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, 
and drops her reel ; 
My fatlier with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, O! 



342 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere 
light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with 
thee, 0?" 

" And must ye bide, yet waiting 's long, and love is strong, 
and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, that takes so long 
to flee, ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, 
wast all in white. 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and 
thee, O." 



THE FIRST WATCH. 
TIRED. 



O, I WOULD tell you more, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

" Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock, 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 343 

The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 

To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, 

Fall over in harmless play, 

As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea. 
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 



I am so tired. 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 

For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 

Often and often, while the light grew dim. 
And through the lilac branches I could see. 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland ? Ay. And then would float 
Up from behind as it were a golden boat, 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life. 

Love — such a slender moon, going up and up, 
Waxing so fast from night to night, 
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, 

Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup. 
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon. 
Ship of the sky ! 



344 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

Across the unfurrowefl reaches sailing high. 

Methought tliat it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. 



All over ! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 

And sunk behind tlie long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses dieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness, lieth 
Wounded and wan ; 

The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
And faints with naught to feed upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 



Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, 
My ever, my only dear ? 
Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way, 
So sure that we should meet 
Upon our trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 345 

Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy dearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
And let that moon of April wane itself away, 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring, 
And never more, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 

In the sultry summer tide, 
And all forget me save for shame full sore. 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no more." 



hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart. 
Ached to itself in vain. 
One came who loveth me 

As I love thee 

And let my God remember him for this. 
As I do hope He will forget thy kiss. 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have 

said 

He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed 
Because he knew the sorrow, — whispering low. 



346 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A mile above the beach, 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 

He said, " I have a boat, 

And were it good to go. 
And unbeholden in the vessel's wake 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, 
As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 



O, how he sighed ! The little stars did wink, 
And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
He led me out across the pasture land. 
And through the narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
IVhen thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, 
The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand 
Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
We pulled them and the other shining flowers 

That all are gone to-day : 
We two, that had so many things to say. 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my dear, — 
Gone after those sweet hours, 
That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone " as a wind that passeth away. 
And oometli not again." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 347 



I only saw the stars, — I could not see 
The river, — and they seemed to lie 
As far below as the other stars were high. 

I trembled like a thing about to die : 
It was so awful 'neath the majesty 
Of that great crystal height, that overhung 
The blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear the dipping of the oar, 
And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. 



Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
As we shot quickly from the silent river, 

And felt the swaying and the flow 
That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 

Whereto its nameless waters go : 
O ! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, 

See that weird sight again ; 
The lights from anchored vessels hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, 

From the rim o' the moaning main, 

And touched with elfin lisht 



348 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

The two long oars whereby we made our flight, 

Along the reaches of the night ; 
Then furrowed up a lowering cloud, 
Went in, and left us darker than before, 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 
And lie in her lee, with mournful faces bowed. 
That should receive and bear with her away 
The brightest portion of my sunniest day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. 



And I beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 

Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. 

And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride 

That followed ; both a little sad, 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, 

That once did bear thee on, 
That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor rash 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 

And that was all its sum ; 

A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 

A drawing near by night. 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, 
And all between the flashing of a light 

And its retreating. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 349 



Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings. 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to depart, 
We stole from her dark lee, like guilty iliing.s; 

And there was silence in my heart, 
And silence in the upper and the neiher deep. 

sleep ! O sleep ! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, 
Thou kind, thou comforting one : 
For I have seen his face, as I desired, 
And all my story is done. 
O, I am tired ! 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 



I WOKE in the night, and the darkness was heavy and 
deep : 
I had known it was dark in my sleep. 
And I rose and looked out, 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 

round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far 



350 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where 
remote 
In the sheen of their glory they float. 
Or laan's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to 
partake. 
And dazed in their wake. 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, '' Remoteness and greatness, how deep you 
are set. 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 0, nor 
yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
as they roll, 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my 

soul, 
" How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations 
of God: 
These are greater than we, every one." 
And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, 
that cries, 
" O my hope ! Is there any mistake ? 
Did He speak ? Did I hear ? Did I listen aright, if He 

spake ? 
Did I answer Him duly ? For surely I now am awake, 

If never I woke until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on 
my brow. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 351 

As a sleep, I must think on ray day, of my path as un- 

trod, 
Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a 

doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope 
round about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, Fashioner, dwelling in light. 

And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
sight, 
I pray Thee, to-night. 
O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou 

Most High ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are 
undone. 
For this is a world where we die. 



With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that 
yearned, 
(There fell a great calm while it spake,) 
I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud, 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the 

crowd : 
To the simple it cometh, — the child, or asleep, or awake. 



352 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And they know not from whence ; of its nature the wise 

never learned 
By his wisdom ; its secret the worker ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought with 
his gold ; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 

Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
(For it moves where it will), nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is still : 
Whence cometh it ? Father Immortal, thou knowest ! 

and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us 

of Thee ; 
For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and 

dread, 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that 

we shed ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our life. 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 



I will fear you, O stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 353 

Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of 

yore ! 
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away 
lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are 
made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is told." 



Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
men? 
(Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in 

His praise. 
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first ; 
it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His throne ; 
'' They shall call on Me, ' Thou art our Father, our God, 

Thou alone ! ' 
For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of 
men ; 
I swear by Myself, thev are IMiiie." 
VOL T. — '23 



354 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



THE MORNING WATCH. 



THE COMING IN OF THE " MERMAIDEN. 



THE moon is bleached as white as wool, 
And just dropping under; 
Every star is gone but three, 

And they hang far asunder, — 
There 's a sea-ghost all in gray, 
A tall shape of wonder ! 

I am not satisfied with sleep, — 

The night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes, 

With wan skirts extended. 
Stealing up in this weird hour, 

When liiiht and dark are blended. 



A vessel ! To the old pier end 
Her liai)py course she 's keeping ; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed, 
She 's ill, — and tlicy are sleeping. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 355 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 

They comfort their long aching : 
The sea of sleep hath borne to them 

What would not come with waking, 
And the dreams shall most be true 

In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, — 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half way out of bed, 

Shall be the first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet her. 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart ! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them " to-morrow." 



356 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 

(Old English 3Ianner.) 

A MORN OF MAY. 

ALL the clouds about the sun lay up in golden 
creases, 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of 

day;) 
Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy 

fleeces, 
So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Here I '11 halt; here's wine of joy 

for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth 

play; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to ray thinking, 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." 

Quotli the Sergeant, " Work is work, but any ye might 

make me, 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I 'd count my lioliday. 
I 'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take 

me, 
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 357 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars are 

worn for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. 
! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and 

faster, 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull 

delay : 
" Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master ; 
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 

hearts are tender." 
Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught 

to say ; 
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel 

render. 
Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. 

Shy, she nought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing 

mended ; 
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his 

way: 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. 
! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 




{Old Style.) 

ETHOUGHT the stars were blinking bright, 
And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to my love this night 
At the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — • 

The sun shot up from the bourne ; 
But a dove that perched upon tiie mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! O fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast. 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 



My true love fares on this gi-eat hill, 
Feeding his sheep for aye ; 

I looked in his hut, but all was still, 
My love was gone away. 



362 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
O last love ! O first love ! 

My love with the true heart, 
To think I have come to this your home, 
And yet — we are apart ! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand. 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, '' In this far land, 

0, is it thus we meet ! 
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here ; 

I have no place, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 

O fair dove ! fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourne, 
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 363 



REMONSTRANCE. 



DAUGHTERS of Eve ! your mother did not well 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 
And we have read, wonder ! what befell, — ■ 

The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand : 
He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 
With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! he did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell ; 

For sometliing better, than as gods to know. 
That husband in that home left off to dwell : 

For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king; 

But God's great pity touched the giand mistake, 
And made his married love a sacred thing : 

Fi)r yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, 

Find the lost Eden in their love to you. 



364 CONTRASTED SONGS. 



SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S 
RESURRECTION. 

{A Humble Imitation.) 

" And birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." 

IT is the noon of night, 
And the world's Great Light 
Gone out, she widow-Hke doth carry her : 
The moon liath veiled her face, 
Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 
And heaven and hade-=, emptied, lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise, 

Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 

But they of the other place 

The heavenly signs deface, 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars ; 

Yet high they sit in throned state, • — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set. 
Where the black shades are met, 
The lord of niglit and hades leans him down ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 355 

His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful thau the glow, 
Which haiigetii by the points of his dread crown ; 
And at his feet, where lightnings play, 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 

As she were sight denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old; 

One, as distraught with woe. 

Letting the spindle go. 
Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 

And one right mournful hangs her head. 
Complaining, " Woe is me ! I may not cut the thread. 

" All men of every birth. 

Yea, great ones of the earth. 
Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down ; 

But I am held of Thee, — 

Why dost Thou trouble me. 
To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown ? 

Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 

" 01ym|»iaii heights are bare 
Of whom men worshipped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 
Their stately powers below 
Lit" desolate, nor know 



366 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 
But I am elder far thau they ; — 
Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away 



" Art thou come up for this, 

Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending ? 

And stirred the dens beneath. 

To see us eat of death, 
With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending ? 

Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep. 

Fade in the upper deep. 
And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 

Till her black veil she rends. 

And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

Then, whelmed in night and no more seen. 
They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. 

And the winged armies twain 
Their awful watch maintain ; 
» They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. 
Behold, from antres wide. 
Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed. 
The swathing coif his front that cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his pabn-edged pool-. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 3G7 

Then like a heap of snow, 

Lying where grasses grow, 
See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, 

Mild mannered Athens, dight 

.In dewy marbles white. 
Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 

And swaying on a purple sea, 
The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, 

Amid their camels laid, 
The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 

Like to those old-world folk, 

With whom two angels broke 
The bi-ead of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, 

AVhen, listening as they prophesied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 

Or from the Morians' land 

See worshipped Nilus bland. 
Taking the silver road he gave the world. 

To wet his ancient shrine 

With waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, 

And list, ere darkness change to gray, 
Old minstrel-throated Meranon chanting in the day. 

Moreover, Lidian glades, 

AVhere kneel the sun-swart maids, 



368 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, 
And launch i' the sultry night 
Their burning cressets bright, 

Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, 

Till on her bosom prosperously 

She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 

Nor bend they not their eyne 
Where the watch-fires shine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 
They mark, in goodly wise, 
The city of David rise, 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 
And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. 

But now the setting moon 
To curtained lauds must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister; 
She first, as loath to go. 
Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 

And trees that in the gardens spread. 
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, 

Then 'neatli the rim goes down ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 
When some despairing eyes. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 369 

Far in the murky skies, 
The unwished waking by their gloom foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. 

Last, with amazed cry, 

The hosts asunder fly. 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 

Whence straightway shooteth down, 

By the Great Father thrown, 
A mighty angel, strong and dread to view ; 

And at his fall the rocks are rent. 
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement ; 

The regions far and near 

Quail with a pau>e of fear. 
More terrible than aught since time began ; 

The winds, that dare not fleet. 

Drop at his awful feet. 
And in its bed wails the wide ocean ; 

The flower of dawn forbears to blow. 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place. 

He lifts his radiant face, 

And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ; 

Then, while the welkin quakes. 

The nmttei-ing thunder breaks. 

And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, 
vol. 1—24 



370 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

And all the daunted earth doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone. — 

— In regal quiet deep, 

Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 
Behold, Pie standeth in the roek-hewn door ! 

Thy children shall not die, — 

Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live for evermore. 

Peace ! lo. He lifts a priestly hand. 
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 

Then, with great dread and wail, 

Fall down, like storms of hail. 
The legions of the lost in fearful wise ; 

And they whose blissful race 

Peoples the better place, 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, 

And through the waxing saffron brede. 
Till they are lost in liglit, recede, and yet recede. 

So while the fields are dim, 

And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign. 

All stars the most admired, 

Into their blue retired. 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 

And, hurrying down the sphery way. 
Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 371 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 

Calm after solemn rest, 
Stauds in the garden 'neath His olive boughs ; 

The earliest smile of day 

Doth on His vesture play, 
And light the majesty of His still brovrs ; 

While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

AY, I saw her, we have met, — 
Mai'ried eyes how sweet they be. 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget ? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 
Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 
Told a certain thing to mine ; 

What they told me I put by, 
O, so careless of the sign. 

Such an easy thing to take. 
And I did not want it then ; 



372 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Fool ! I wish ray heart would break, 
Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self-betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way, 

And a better man drew nigh. 
Fain to earn, with long essay. 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old. 

What was born, and waxed, and yearned. 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met. 
Silence ! O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 

« /'"^ LD man, upon the green hillside, 

V^ With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 
How long in silence wilt thou bide 

At this low stone door? 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 373 

" I stoop : within 't is dark and still ; 

But .shadowy paths niethinks there be, 
And lead they far into the hill ? " 

" Traveller, come and see." 

" T is dark, 't is cold, and hung with gloom ; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

" Not so, not so, thou youthful guest. 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamher of thy rest. 
And the closing door ! " 

" 0, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, 
And striven on smoky fields of fight, 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night ; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 

Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray. 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ? " 

" Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep. 
Till some time, Onk my seal shall break. 

And deep shall answer unto deep, 
Wlien He crieth, ' Aavake ! ' " 



374 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

A LILY AND A LUTE. 

{Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 



I 



OPENED the eyes of my soul. 

And behold, 
A white river-hly : a lily awake, and aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet and 

gold 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 

also ashamed. 
The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, 

And that no foot hath trod. 
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 

endure, 
AVithdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves 

pure, 

And look up to God. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 375 

Then I said, " In rosy air, 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing eai'ly ray 
Whitens into perfect day, 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 
Nay, but I will bear thee far, 
Where yon clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erhead. 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmers pace, 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit, 
By their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told, 
Wiiile the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet. 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup. 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men shall take tiiee in the mart 
For the ghost of tlieir l)est thought. 
Raised at noon, and nc^ar them brousht ; 



376 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Or the prayer they made last night, 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out my rash hand, 
For I thought to draw to land 
The white lily. Was it fit 
Such a blossom should expand. 
Fair enough for a world's wonder, 
And no mortal gather it ? 
No. I strove, and it went under. 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the waterweeds' long tresses. 
And the overlapping cresses. 
Sullied its admired crown. 
Then along the river strand, 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled. 
And its snowy pureness soiled : 
O ! I took it in my hand, — 
You will never see it now. 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 

If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight. 
And the flickerin^s over white 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 377 

Mountain summits far away, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind, 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood, 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing, 
In the grace that it did bring. 
And the light that o'er it flowed. 
With the pureness that it showed, 
And the pureness that it meant ? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw ? For this, I ween, 
He were likewise impotent. 



I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold. 
There was music within and a song, 
And echoes did I'eed on the svveetnes-s, repeating it long. 
I opened the doors of my heart : and behold, 
There was mu ic that played itself out in seolian notes ; 
Then was heard, as a iar-away bell at long intervals tolled 

That murmurs and floats, 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold. 
And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, 

That maketh the listener full oft 



378 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

To whisper, " Ah ! would I might hear it for ever and aye, 
When I toil in the heat of the day, 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
There was music within, and a song. 

But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick 
and strong, 

Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting wiis 
drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 

For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on 
the shore. 
And trees in the dark all around 

Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark ! there is 
thunder to-night ! 

The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down 
with a will ; 

The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are 
all dead ; — 

There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of liglit 
Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 

" Loud thunder ! it thunders ! and up in tlic daik over- 
head, 

A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder !) a down-pour- 
ing cloud 

Hails out her fierce message, and quivers tlie deep in 
its bed, 

And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter aloud, 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 379 

And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their 



*o^> 



The heavens and earth come together, aud meet with a 

crash ; 
And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with 
the flash. 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last page. 

" Now their bar the pent water-floods lash. 
And the forest trees give out their language austere with 
great age ; 
And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill. 
And there heaveth at intervals wide, 
The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, 
Until quiet drop down on the tide. 
And mad Echo had moaned herself still." 



Lo ! or ever I was 'ware, 

In the silence of the air, 

Through my heart's wide-open door. 

Music floated forth once more, 

Floated to the world's dark rim, 

And looked over with a hymn ; 

Then came home with flutings fine. 

And discoursed in tones divine 

Of a certain grief of mine ; 

And went downward and went in, 



380 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
Tlmt I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
Fathomless and dim to me. 

O, the song ! it came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from uurevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song ? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You have heard it in the night, 
In the dropping rain's despite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the children were asleep, 
And the wife, — no, let that be ; 
She asleep ! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me, 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 331 

She hath heai-d its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow. 



While I listened, like young birds, 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came ; 
Everything had changed its name. 



SoiTow was a ship, I found, 

Wrecked with them that in her are. 

On an island richer tar 

Than the port where they were bound. 

Fear was but the awful boom 

Of the old great bell of doom. 

Tolling, far from earthly air, 

For all worlds to go to prayer. 

Pain, that to us mortal clings. 

But the pushing of our wings, 

That we have no use for yet. 

And the uprooting of our feet 

From the soil where they are set, 

And the land we reckon sweet. 

Love in growth, the grand deceit 

Whereby men the perfect greet ; 

Love in wane, the blessing sent 

To be (howsoe'er it went) 

Never more with earth content. 



382 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

O, full sweet, and O, full bigh, 

Ran that music up the sky ; 

But I cannot sing it you, 

More than I can make you view. 

With my paintings labial, 

Sitting up in awful row, 

White old men majestical, 

Mountains, in their gowns of snow, 

Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 

Looking over speckled skies, 

See them now. About their knees, 

Half in haze, thei'e stands at ease 

A great army of green hills. 

Some bareheaded; and, behold, 

Small green mosses creep on some. 

Those be mighty forests old ; 

And white avalanches come 

Through yon rents, where now distils 

Sheeny silver, pouring down 

To a tune of old renown. 

Cutting narrow pathways through 

Gentian belts of airy blue, 

To a zone where starwort blows, 

And long reaches of the rose. 



So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut fox-ests wind, 
Past yon jagged spires, where yet 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 333 

Foot of man was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where. 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue, 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-maid's hair. 



What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down, to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women uiowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft 
Floating of the film aloft, 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this told ? It is not told. 
Where 's the danger ? where 's the cold 
Slippery danger up the steep? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep ? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray, 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
Peace, and echo, where are they ? 



Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace enfold 



384 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong 
To the hearers. Not a whit, 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 



Though a bird of sweetest throat. 
And some lute full clear of note, 
Could have tried it, — O, the lute 
For that wondrous song were mute, 
And the bird would do her part. 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — 
Break her heart, and furl her wings. 
On those unexpressive strings. 




GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

( On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.) 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAl 

HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 
They gave a day for pleasure in the school 
Where Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, " We think it were not well 
That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless change. 
It would not suit her station : discontent 
Might come of it; and all her duties now 
vShe does so pleasantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her, 
" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, you are free ; you need not sit at work : 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the sea-clitF, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 

Then Ghidys blushed 
VOL. I. — 25 



386 GLADYS AND HER ISLAXD. 

For joy, and thanked them. What ! a holiday, 
A wliole one, for herself ! How good, how kind ! 
With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; 
And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Srole out beyond tli« groups upon the beach — 
Tiie children witli their wooden spades, the band 
That played lor lovers, and the sunny stir 
Or' cheer. ul life and leisure — to the rocks. 
For the^e she wanted mo.^t, and there was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes. 
And let the great white-cresied reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As })laying at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help. 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, 
And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, 
And said, " O, happy tide, to be so lost 
In ."uushine, that one daie not look at it ; 
And lucky clifi's, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how hieky are the shadows, too, 
Tnat lurk beni-atii their ledges. It is ftrange. 
That in remembrance though I lay them up, 
I hey are forever, when I come to them, 
Beiter than I had thought. O, something yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, ' At least 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 381 

Tliis piiture is imprinted; tlius and thus, 
The siiarpened serried jags run up, run out. 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
Tliey cut into their ether, — brown, and clear, 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' Tliis is mine, 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again, 
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
Tliey redden, and their edges drip wirli — what ? 
I know not, but 't is red. It leaves n ) stain, 
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
In a sea-.-hroud and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 

'•There is the boulder where we always turn. 

O ! I ha\ e longed to pass it ; now I will. 

What would THKY say? for one must slip and spring ; 

' Young Lidies ! Ghidys ! I am shocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have lo )ked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 

' What will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet. 

And where they carry you I ' All, well, I know 

It is a pity," Ghidys said ; *' but then 

We cannot all b« wise : happy for me, 



888 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Tlial other people are. 

"And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — I do wish that they would come 
Wlien they are wanted! — when 1 teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practising 
I count to, and tiie din goes on and on, 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake, 
Th(Mi I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me. 
And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, 
Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last ? Perhaps, that very day. 
The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 
And I am so delighted with this world, 
That suddenly has grown, being new washed, 
To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, 
And with a tender face shining through tears, 
Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, 
That has been angry, but is reconciled. 
And just forgiving lu-r, that I, — that I, — 
O, I forget myself: what matters how ! 
And then I hear (but always kindly said) 
Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true; 
* For if your place in this estnblisliment 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 389 

Be but subordinate, aud if your birth 
Be lowly, it the more behooves, — well, well, 
No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 
I am always sorry then ; but uow, — O, now, 
Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 

"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? 
And did she want to be as wise as tliey, 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no, 
The night-time will not let her, all ihe ftars 
Say nay to that, — the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell. 
And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stonas. 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
' O, it is dark ! there is no sunshine hi^re ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange ! 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe. 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, 
And never looked at Gladys, never once. 
" A simple child," she added, and went by, 
" To want to change her greater for their less ; 
But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she ; 
We love her — don't we ? — far too well for that." 



390 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, 

*' How could she be so near, and I not know ? 

And have I spoken out my thought aloud ? 

1 must have done, forgetting. It is well 

She walks so fast, for I am hungry now. 

And here is water cantering down the cliff. 

And here a shell to catch it with, and here 

The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 

Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 

To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, 

Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 

And thought the earth was happy, and she too 

Was going round with it in happiness, 

That holiday. " What was it that she said? " 

Quoth Gladys, cogitating ; '' they were kind, 

The words tliat woman spoke. She does not know ! 

' Her greater for their less,' — it makes rae laugh, — 

But yet," sighed Gladys, " though it must be good 

To look and to admire, one should not wish 

To steal their virtues, and to put them on. 

Like feathers from another wing ; beside, 

That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth. 

When all is said, would little suit with me, 

Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, 

Though they be good and humble, one should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 

Were only once removed from innocence. 



GLADYS AN^D HER ISLA.YD. 391 

Why did I envy them ? That was not good ; 
Yet it began with my humility." 

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 

Behold, ail island! First, she looked away 

Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore. 

For she was all amazed, believing not, 

And then she looked again, and there again 

Behold, ail island ! And the tide had turned, 

The milky sea had got a purple rim, 

And from the rim that mountain island ro-;e. 

Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 

The higher, and with fell and precipice, 

It ran down steeply to the water's brink; 

But all the southern line was long and soft, 

Broken with ti'uder curves, and, as she thought, 

Covered with fore t or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on tiie island ; and he showed 

On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, " Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island: how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, 

She thouirht tliat it began to fjide ; but not 

To change as cloud-; do, only to withdraw 

And melt into its azure ; and at last. 

Little by little, from her hungry heart, 

That longed to draw things marvellous to itself. 



392 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of tlie beauty God hath made, 

It pa-;sed away. Tears started in her eyes, 

And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 

In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 

" O, what a little while ! I am afraid 

I shall forget that purple mountain isle, 

The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, 

The grace of her upheaval where she lay 

Well up against tlie open. O, my heart, 

Now I remember how this holiday 

"Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 

Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 

Let to look silently at what it wants, 

"Without the power to wait or pause awhile. 

And understand and draw within itself 

The richn(i-s of the earth. A holiday ! 

How few I have ! I spend the silent time 

At Avork, while all their pupils are gone home, 

And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 

They are great planets, I a little orb ; 

My little orbit far within their own 

Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more 

I am alone when those I teach return ; 

For they, as planets of some other sun. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 393 

Not mine, have paths that can but meet ray ring 

Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 

I have not got laid up in this blank lieart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 

Because my childliood was itself a good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise. 

And comforting. An orphan-school at best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('T was mostly winter when new or()hans came), 

An unregaided mother in the spring. 

"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought on it 
Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street. 
To tJKit one tree, the otdy one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Tlien there came the feast 
At Epping. If it rained th;it day, it rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
Fluttei'ing, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" All, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering timej 
I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have lieard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 



394 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

The woman ! She came I'oiind the rock again 

With her fair baby, and she t^at her down 

By Ghidys, murmuring, " Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew ? 

Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 

'Thou slialt not wait for angel visitors 

To trouble thy still water ? ' Must we bide 

At home ? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 

Without ? 0, we siiall draw to us the air 

Tiiat times and mystery feed on. This shall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the woi-ld, 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on. 

Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 

'■ What else ? — (O, none shall envy her !) The r;iin 

And the wild weather will be most her own. 

And talk witli her o' nights ; and if the winds 

Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 

In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 

Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad 

Masterful tramping of the bison herd--. 

Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, 

In savage rilts of ha'.r ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 

Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world 

JMurnbling their meals bv twilight; or the rock 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 895 

And majesty of motion, wlion their heads 
Pi-imeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 
And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 
No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, 0, drop, 
Thou tired skylaik, and go up no more ; 
You liiiie-trei^s, cover not your head with bees, 
Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 
No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, 
For lack of holidays." So Gladys tliought, 
" A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 
With that a girl ran up ; " Mother," she said, 
" Come out of this brown bight, 1 pray you now, 
It smells of liiiries." Gladys thereon thought, 
"Tiie mother will not spi^ak to me, perhaps 
The daughtiT may," and a^ked her courteously, 
" What do the fairies smell ot ? " But the girl 
With peevish pout replied, " You know, you know." 
''Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 
"Something like I)utiercu])S. But, mother, come, 
And whisper uj) a porpoise from the foam. 
Because I want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " Y''ou freakish maid," 
Said she, " now mark me, if I call you one. 
You shall not scold nor make him take )'ou far." 

" I only want, — yon know I only want," 
The girl replied, " to go and ()lay awliile 



396 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
Who ?a\v the island ? " But the mother frowned. 
" When may she go to it ? " the daugliter asked. 
And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
To hear the answer. '" When she wills to go ; 
For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." 
Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry boat, and far away 
Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then slie raised her arms. 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, " O rare, 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The pail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked. 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft. 
And would be leaning down her head to mew 
At cat-fir^h, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
Slie fliHijT to their s'.t'ck motliers, till her own 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 397 

Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 

" Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 

Sobbed the fair mischief; ''you are cross to me." 

" For shame ! " the mother shrieked ; " luff, luff, ray 

dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on.'' So she did, 
And presently a dolphin bouncing up, 
Siie sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
Slie laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. 

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman talked 

Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts 

Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 

She nodded, '' Ye.-, the girl is going now 

To her own island. Gladys poor ? Not she ! 

Who thinks so ? Once I met a man in wh'.te, 

Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been 

Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside the actual, and reckoned in 

To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so 

The possible stand.-; by u.-; ever fresh. 

Fairer than aught wiiicli any life hath owned, 

And makes divine amends. Now this was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 

An equal; — and not suffered to fence in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say. 



398 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

'T is mine ' ; but in bereavement of the part, 
O, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 
The grandeur of the story, not to feel 
Satiate with good possessed, but evermore 
A healthful hunger for the great idea. 
The beauty and the blessedness of life. 

'• Lo, now, the shadow ! " quoth she, breaking otF, 
" AVe are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, 
And, 0, the mountain with the purple peaks 
Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 
And they were in it : and she saw the snow, 
And under that the rocks, and under that 
The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 
Ninnerous dips, and undulations rare. 
Running down seaward, all astir with lithe 
Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the palms 
And spice trees of the south, na}', every growth. 
Meets in tiiat island. 

So that woman ran 
The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot 
Thereon, Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
" It all belongs to Gladys " ; and she ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So slie looked round, 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
Fu'l of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 399 

A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 

Or reaching out (heir jewelled necks, where high 

They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 

Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 

But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 

From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 

Lower on azure stars. The air was still, 

As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, 

And Glailys was the only thing that moved, 

Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then ? 

Glorified rainbows with a living soul ? 

While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen. 

Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 

In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 

That lay about removing, — purple grapes. 

That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 

Throisgh a small spot of light would pass and g >, 

'J'he glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes 

Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went ; 

But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, 

IJe'nold them ! the}' had wings, and they would pass 

One after other with the sheeny fans, 

Bearing tliem slowly, that their hues were seen, 

Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, 

Or where they turned flashing witli gold and dashc.l 

Wit'n purple glooms. And they had feet, but the«; 

Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 

Nor rouse up fiwns, tiiat slept beside their dam ; ; 



400 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid 

Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans, 

That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds. 

With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, 

Was Eden. She Avas passing through the trees 

That made a ring about it, and she caught 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow. 

And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. 

Why ? One was working in a valley near. 

And none might look that way. It was understood 

That He had nearly ended that His work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spake. 

Accosting him with, " Prince, what worketh He ? " 

Who whispered, " Lo ! Pie fashioneth red clay." 

And all at once a little trembling stir 

Was I'elt in the earth, and every creature woke. 

And laid its head down, listening. It was known 

Then that the work was done ; the new-made king 

Ilad risen, and set his feet upon his realm. 

And it acknowledged him. 

But in her path 
Came some one that withstood her, and he said, 
" What doest thou here ? " Then she did turn and flee, 
Among those colored spirits, through the grove, 
Trembling for haste ; it was not well with her 
Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 401 

And set her feet upon the common grass, 
And felt the common wind. 

Yet once beyond, 
She could not choose but cast a backward glance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
And means of entering were not evident, — 
The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy : 
She said, " Remoteness and a multitude 
Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, 
To-day I have been in Eden. 0, it blooms 
In my own island." 

And she wandered on, 
Thinking, until she reached a place of pahns, 
And all the earth was sandy where she walked, — 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus leaves, 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps is was the way 
Tliat leads to dead old Egypt), and withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths, — 
Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, 
And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat 
And smiled upon the ruin. O how still ! 
Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand. 
When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo ! 



402 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, 
Which erst hud carried to their pagan prayers 
The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins, — partly reared 
lu front of that same cliff, and partly hewn 
Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
Of sand and stones on either side tlieie lay ; 
And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, 
As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, 
Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
Like angels ; and this carven multitude 
Hedged in, to right and left, the i-ot-ky road. 
At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a door 
Yawning : and she looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 
No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led 
Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear 
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight. 
Flight after fligiit, the worn long stair go down. 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again went down, 
Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, 
It seemed no larger, in its height remote, 
Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
She doubted of the end, yet farther down 
A slender ray of lamplight fell away 
Along the stair, as Iro'.n a door ajar: 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 403 

To this again A\e felt her way, and stepped 
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
Entrance, and listened. Ay ! 't was even ?o, — 
A .'■igh ; the breathing as of one wiio slept 
And was di-turbed. So she drew back awhile, 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep ? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, 
TliiU fell on some one resting, in the gloom, — 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape 
That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, 
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 

Was it a heifer ? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled. 
And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
Murmured, '* O terrible ! I am afraid 
To breathe amontr ihese intermiitent lives. 



404 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Tliat fluctuate in mystic solitude, 

And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 

Dreaming on her dim throne ; a crescent moon 

She wears upon her forehead. Ah ! her frown 

Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 

What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast ? 

A baby god with finger on his lips, 

Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway ? 

Tliy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 

And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 

He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 

He will not tell." 

The woman coming down ! 
'■ Child, what art doing here ? " the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Dame Isis and lier bairn ? " 
(At/, ai/, we see thee breathing in thy sliroud, — 
Tliy pretty shroud, cdl frilled and furhelowed.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, 
Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — 
Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie. 
Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings. 
And all the gear they took to bed with them ! 
Horrible ! Let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
" O, they are rough to mount, tliose stairs " ; but she 
Took iier and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her, " There," said she ; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 405 

"The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, 

Down in unholy heathen gloom ; faiewell." 

She pointed to a gateway, strong and high. 

Reaped of hewn stones ; but, look ! in lieu of gate, 

Tliere was a glitteiing cobweb drawn across, 

And on the lintel there were writ these words: 

" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 

Wliat hath been from what might be, and the line 

Hangeth before thee as a spider's web ; 

Yet, wouldst thou enter tliou must break the line, 

Or el.^e forliear the hill."' 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side. 
And waded through the bracken round their bolls, 
Until she saw the open, and dreu' on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
AVitli pines and heathery places wild and fre^h. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes. 
Jabbering of gramarye, cne Michael Scott, 
The wizard that wonued somewhere underground. 
With other talk enough to make o le fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Ddoraine ; 
He shook his liead, " An' if I list to tell," 
Quoth he, " 1 know, but how it matters not " ; 
Then crossed himself, and muttuied of a clap 



406 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, 

But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, " Tint, 

Tint, tint." " There shall be wild work some day soon, 

Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come. 

Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp. 

And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down. 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To tend them. 'T was the boy who wears that hei'b 

Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 

So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " Content, Content, 

Give me," sang he, " ihy tender company. 

I feed my flock among the myrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the river, where their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come. 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Tliy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of i)eace, — 

Thy well-.^et locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 
Till she had i-ested ; then did ask the boy. 
For it was afternoon, and she was fain 
To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pray. 
That leads one to the water ? " But he said, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 407 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 
Tlie path that leads one to the golden gate 
Across the river." So she wandered on ; 
And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 
Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 
The air was full of voices, and the scent 
Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts ; 
For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount. 
And reared in such a sort that it looked down 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the island. It was set 
Midway between the snows majestical 
And a wide level, such as men would choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
'' It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, " Give us more " ; 
And others said, " We are tired of this old world : 
Make it look new again." Then there were some 
Wlio answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
But others sang desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up : 
" There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 



408 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

By some who climbed the mountahi from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest trade, 
And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be ; who despise 
Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 

Then did Gladys smile : 
" Heroes ! "' quoth she ; "yet, now I think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear. 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
• London is thirsty ' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
' T is an ill thing, my mastei'S. I would give 
The worth of this, and many snch as this, 
To bring it water.' 

'• Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
O' the honest lighterman. I '11 think on him. 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves. 
After his shop was closed : a still, grave man, 
With melancholy eyes. ' Wliile these are hale,' 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 409 

He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 

Cheerily working ; where the river marge 

Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 

Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 

• While these are hale, 't is well, 't is very well. 

But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — 

1 fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship 

Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 

Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of you. 

Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away. 

And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid. 

Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 

Well, we have heard the rest. 

" Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant c;iptain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Robert,' saith he, 
(The navigator Knox to liis manful son,) 
' I sit a captive from the ^hip detained ; 
This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
Remember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 
To ransom thy poor father, tiiey are free 
As yet, the mariners ; have wives at home. 
As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, 
Tlierelbre, 'beseecii thee, son, lay on the mate 
This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 
As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 
' I will not, father, ask your blessing now. 
Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate 



410 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Wo two shall meet again." And so they did. 

Tiie dusky men, peeling ofF cinnamon, 

And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, 

Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed, — 

The son returned to share his father's cell. 

" O, there are many such. Would I had wit 

Their worth to sing ! " With that, she turned her (ijer, 

" I am tired now," said Gladys, " of their talk 

Around this hill Parna.-sus." And, behold, 

A piteous sight — an old, blind, graybeard king 

Led by a fool wiih bells. Now this was loved 

Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 

For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age. 

And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known 

To say, that if the best of gold and gear 

Could have bought liim back his kingdom, and niadt 

kind 
Tlie hard hearts which had broken his ercwhile, 
They would have gladly paid it from tiieir store 
Many times over. What is done is done, 
No help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
And look you ! one wlio met her as .-he walked 
vShowed her a mountain nymph lovely as light. 
Ilcr name QEnone ; and she mourned and mourned, 
" O Mother Ida," and she could not cease. 
No, nor be comforted. 

And after this, 
Soon tliere came by, arrayed in Norman cap 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 411 

AiiiJ kirlle, an Arcadian villager, 
Who said, " I pray you, have you chanced to meet 
One Gabriel ? " and she sighed ; but Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : slie could not answer her, 
Because she guessed tlie end. 

AVith that it drew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the wave. 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea margin, which was covered thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
As wine. The water played among bare ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute. 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, 
P^'or in them beamed the untaught ecstasy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
And love ju^t born. 

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked princ;;, 

All blushing. She told Gladys many things 

That are not in the story, — things, in sooth, 

Tiiat Prospero her father knew. But now 

'T was evening, and the sun di-ooped; purple stripes 

In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 

Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 

The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home 



412 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 

Peace, peace ! " she said ; " be good : you shall not steer. 

For I am your liege lady." Then she sang 

The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well. 
My country, my own kingdom," then she said, 
" Till I go visit you agaia, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt, — 

The carriages were coming. Hastening up, 

She was in time to meet them at the door. 

And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 

And some were cross and shivered, and her dames 

Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 

Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 

With a warm cloak to 'fend her fron the cold. 

" For, come what will," she said, " I had to-day. 

There is an island." 

T/ie Moral. 

What is the moral? Let us think awhile, 
Taking the editorial We to help, 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 413 

We always read, when any fable ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
What do you think of this? " Hence we may learii 
That dolphins svviin about the coast of Wales, 
And Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
Wy teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, 
And they can spy out islands." Will that do? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 
(We know we have a happy knack that way. 
We have observed, moreover, that young men 
Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 
Especially of that meandering kind, 
Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all 
They ought to be and do and think and wear, 
As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 
Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 
So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein ; 
That is the thing ; but how to manage it ? 
" Hence we may learn" if we be so inclined, 
That life goes best with those who take it best; 
That wit can spin from work a golden robe 
To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 
A private picture gallery, should not cry 
For shillings that will let him in to look 
At some by others painted. Furthermore, 
Hence we may learn, you poets, — {and we count 
For poets all who ever fell that such 



414 GLADYS AND H2P, I^LAKD. 

They weT3, and all u>ho secretly lime Imoir.^ 
That such they could he / ay^ moreover., cE 
Who wind the robes of ideality 
About the bareness of their lives, and hang 
Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, 
Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world), — 
HtMice we may learn, you poets, that of all 
We should be most content. The earth is given 
To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 
Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, 
The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 
Humanity is given to us: we reign 
By virtue of a sense, which lets us in 
To know its troubles ere they have been told, 
And take them home and lull them into rest 
With mournfullest mu.--ic. Time is given to us,— 
Time past, time future. Who, good ?ooth, beside 
Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 
When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 
Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns? 

Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, 
And peered between the linen curtains, blue. 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there. 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna pot 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. -115 

Of Ctesar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards, 
"We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In all his bravery to the wedding. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
And afterwards have done : " Hence toe may learnt 
Tliat though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy, — (and we think it is. 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reason-^ foi- utihappiness. 
And talked about uncomfortable tilings, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowncss. 
The hoUowness o' the world, till we at last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
Ueing so hollow, it should break some day. 
And let us in), — yet, since we are not grand, 
(), not at all, and as for cleverness. 
That may be or may not be, — it is well 
For us to be as happy as we can ! 

Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex. 
As thus : we pray you carry not your guns 
On the full- cock ; we pray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add. 
And end ; for all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your En'jli-h. 



Note to "Gladts and Her Island." 

The woman is Imagination ; she is brooding over what she brought 
forth. 

The two purple pealcs represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
tory. 

The girl is Fancy. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



VOL. I. — 27 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 




WEDLOCK. 

HE sun was streaming in : I woke, and said, 
" Where is my wife, — that has been made my 
wife 

Only this year ? " The casement stood ajar : 
I did but lift my head : The pear-tree dropped, 
The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 

Were tossing down their silver messengers, 

And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, 

Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ; 

An idle world lay listening to their talk. 

They had it to themselves. 



420 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

What ails my wife ? 
I know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. " love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
At unaware to think thy thoughts alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart 
The reason. Ah ! thou art no more thine own. 
Mine, mine, love ! Tears gather 'neath my lids, — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty. 
That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless. 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Some pain ? " 

She walks beside the lily bed. 
And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked 
Yet on the daylight. 0, thy locks are brown, — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, dear, veiled, mode.-t eyes. 
A bloom as of blush roses covers her 
Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with 

her. 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came in, 
And moved into the chamber. As for me, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 421 

I heard, but lay as one tliat nothing hears, 
And feigned to be asleep. 



The racing river leaped, and sang 
Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad together. 



This rained out light from every part. 

And that with songs of joy was thrilling; 

But, in the hollow of my heart, 

There ached a place that wanted filling. 



Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 
I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 

And paused to like it, and to listen. 



I heard the chanting waters flow. 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, — 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 

How could I ? — that my time was coming. 



422 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



A girl upon the nighest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 



She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 

We thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 



I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moment had been hours 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 



Her fellow maids in copse and lane, 

Ah ! still, methinks, I hear them calling 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain. 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 423 



But now it is a year ago, 

But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



REGRET. 



OTHAT word Regret ! 
There have been nights and morns when we have 
sighed, 
" Let us alone, Regret ! We are content 
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world ; 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget. 



424 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
Tliere runs a thread of gold that gUtters fair, 
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
That we have wept. But O ! this thread of gold, 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know- 
That memory is possession. 



When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad. 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

My days will not be better days, should I forget. 



When I remember something promised me. 
But which I never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 

When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 

My happier days are not the days when I forget. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 425 



LAMENTATION. 



I READ upon that book. 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
I read upon tliat book 
How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 
A ladder from the star-place, and it clung 
To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and ! 

There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 
That stepped to him where he lay low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
(This feathered brood of heaven), and show 
Small as while flakes in winter that are blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said, 
" Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Yet I liave got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more : it doth not us beseem, 

Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky ? 



426 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

"We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail), — 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray ? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
' Suffer us not, for any pains of death, 

To fall from Thee.' 
But 0, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 

There is no comfort now, and naught to win, 
But yet, — I will begin." 



" Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say. 
For that is wasted away ; 

And much of it was cankered ere it went. 

" Preserve to me my health," I cannot say. 
For that, upon a day. 

Went after other delights to banishment. 



What can I pray ? " Give me forgetfulness " 
No, I would still possess 



HONGS WITH PRELUDES. 427 

Past away smiles, though preseut fronts be stern. 
*■ Give me again ray kindred ? " Nay ; not so, 

Not idle prayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 



I do not pray, " Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 

For how should comfort be ? 
0, — that cooing mouth, — that little white head ! 
No ; but I pray, " If it be not too late, 

Open to me the gate. 
That I may find my babe when I am dead. 



" Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free, 
Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to Thy blest seat, 
And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done." 



428 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



DOMINION. 

WHEN found the rose delight in her fair hue ? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 't is I 
That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul, 
That trees are nothing to their fellow trees ; 
It is but I that love their stateliness. 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit 
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
But the other world ye wot of, shall go too ; 
I will carry it in my bosom. my world. 
That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up thuf, when they wake, 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 429 

Aud give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
The lovely world, and the over- world alike, 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
" Thy Father loves thee." 



Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees. 

Or a clustering village street 

Foundationless built on the seas. 



The mariners ply their craft. 
Each set in his castle frail ; 

His care is all for tlie draught, 
And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 



For rain came down in the night, 
And thunder muttered full oft, 



430 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



I take the land to my breast, 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best, 
And all that 's made is mine. 



Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip, 
There yet is a day for me ; 

Nor youth I count for a ship 
That Ions: aso foundered at sea. 



" Did the lost love die and depart ? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart. 

And all that was — is yet. 



" I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yield liim homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 



aONGii WITH PRELUDES. 431 



" I grant to the wise his meed, 
But his yoke I will not brook, 

For God taught me to read, — 
He lent me the world for a book.' 



FRIENDSHIP. 



ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS 
WIFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 



BEAUTIFUL eyes, — and shall I see no more 
The living thought when it would leap from them. 
And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids ? 



Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles of our race deep inroads made, 

Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 

At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought, — 

" God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, — 

The true one ! " O sweet eyes, that seem to live, 

I know so much of you, tell me the rest ! 

Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 

For small, young children. Is a message here 

That you would fain have sent, but had not time ? 



432 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

If such there be, I pi'omise, by long love 
And perfect frienddhip, by all trust that comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
No, nor delay to find it. 

O, my heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
Some grave defect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
Moved to the music of the tideless main, 
While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, 
And I did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When young leaves played at their best. 

The children called us from yonder wood. 
And rock-doves crooned ou the nest. 



Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call. 
And I hear your pattering feet ; 

It does not matter, matter at all. 
You fatherless children sweet, — 



It does not matter at all to you, 
Young hearts that pleasure besets 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 433 

The father sleeps, but the world is new, 
The child of his love forgets. 



I too, it may be, before they drop, 
The leaves that flicker to-day. 

Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, 
Shall pass from my place away : 



Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 
Or snow lies soft on the wold. 

Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light. 
And leave the story untold. 



Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that oe, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and see, — - 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 



Leave it with God. But this I have known, 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, 

Forget by full of the moon. 



434 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death knell. 



There are four or live, who, passing this place, 
While they live will name me yet ; 

And when I am gone will think on my face, 
And feel a kind of regret. 



WINSTANLEY. 



THE APOLOGY. 

^^^UOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 
^^ " Water-grass, you know not what I do ; 
Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes, 
And — I know not you." 

Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! waken ! 

Breathe, wind, and set our answer free, 
For we have no t^oice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree." 

Qnoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
]s\iiight you are to me but sounds of motion ; 
I am naught to you" 

Quoth the ocean, '■'■Dawn! fairest, clearest. 

Touch me with thy golden fingers bland; 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land." 



436 WINSTANLEY. 

Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory, 

" Many blame me, few have understood ; 
Ah, my folk, to you Heave a story, — 
3fake its meaning good." 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet / teach us, prove us 

Surely toe shall learn the meaning then ; 
Wound us with a pain divine, move us, 
For this man of men.'" 



WmSTANLEY'S deed, you kindly folk, 
With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 
Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship " Snowdrop " tarried long. 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within. 

And still would each one say, 
" Good mercer, be the ships come up?" 

But still he answered " Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the street, 

"With looks of grief and fear : 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name. 

We bring you evil cheer ! 



WINSTANLEY. 437 

" For the good ship ' Snowdrop ' struck, — she struck 

On the rock, — the Eddystone, 
And down she went with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

'• Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat. 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

" O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true, 
Sony at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

" Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town, 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 



438 WINSTANLEY. 

The " Snowdrop " sank at Lammas tide, 

All under the yeasty spray ; 
On Cliristmas Eve the brig " Content " 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving lads ran to and fro. 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'erhead, 

And holly-boughs irom rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide. 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads. 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
" Now, stranger, who be ye ? " 

He looked to right, he looked to left. 
And '' Rtst you merry," quoth he ; 



WINSTANLEY. 439 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone. 

" She drave at the rock with steriisails set ; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow, 

Then leaped at it again. 

" There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads. 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went. 

And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all 's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Win^taidey said, 

" And see this deadly rock." 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 



440 WINSTANLEY. 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 

And shot up its stately head. 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'T is the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of London town, 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
" You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

" That on the rock complain. 

" An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right, 
Well with my thoughts they chime, 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time." 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free. 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." 



WINSTANLEY. 441 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed alsd ; 

" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, thou 'It root it out 

From the sea that doth it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 

But straight they lay him dead ; 
A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — they '11 shoot 

Higher than her mast-head. 

*' O, beacons sighted in the dark. 

They are right welcome things, 
And pitchpots flaming on the shore 

Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand ? then light the land. 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away. 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
IMy debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee greet. 



442 WINSTANLEY. 

" If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock and not elsewhere ; 

If I may live, O let me live 

To moimt my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered, " Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay : 

" Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men, 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he sat his manly foot 

On the rock, — tlie Eddystone. 



WINSTANLEY. 443 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 

And worked with power and might : 
Whatever the man reared up by day 

The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, 

He sailed to shore at fiow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam also. 

" Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

'• But the rock will have its way. 

" For all his looks that are so stout, 

And his speeches brave and fair. 
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 

But he '11 build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout. 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

Willi line weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
" To take his wage," the workmen said, 

" We almost count a sin." 



444 WINSTANLEY. 

Now March was gone, came April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, - 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 
For a long eight days and more ; 

" God help our men," quoth the women then ; 
" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 
" Where may our mariners be ? " 

But the brooding fog lay soft as down 
Over the quiet sea. 

A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en ; 
" As I am a man," the captain cried, 

" A strange sight I have seen : 

" And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 
At sea, in the fog and the rain, 

Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, 
Then loud, then low again. 



WINSTANLEY. 445 

" And a stately house one instant showed, 

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be those 

That build upon the sea ? " 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised ! " 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe that livelong night, 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold. 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went. 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore ; 

Said he, " My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 



446 WINSTANLEY. 

" But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
Another than I shall rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high. 

For now the way is plain, 
And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

" Yet, were I fain still to remain. 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why then 't were good. 

Amid their tremulous stirs. 
To count each stroke when the mad waves broke. 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well. 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay ! I were fain, long to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep. 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

Thnt ever d!d move the deep." 



WINSTANLEY. 447 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea. 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds woke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, — 

Broke on the trembling town. 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth. 

The lighthouse tower was down. 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep. 

Who made it shine afai'. 
And then in the night that drowned its light, 

Set, with his pilot star. 



448 



WINSTANLEY. 



Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show ; 
The brave and the great lie there in state . 
Winstanley lieth low. 




END OF VOL. I. 



POEMS BY JEAN INGELOW 
Volume II. 



TO JEAN INGELOW. 



TJ/'HEN youth was high, and life was new. 
And days sped musical and fleet, 
She stood amid the morning dew. 
And sang her earliest measures sweet, — 
Sang as the lark sittgs, speeding /air 
To touch and taste the purer air. 
To gain a nearer view of Heaven; 
''Twas then she sang " The Songs of Seven. ^' 

Now, farther on in womanhood. 
With trained voice and ripened art. 
She gently stands where once she stood. 
And sings from out her deeper heart. 
Sing on, dear Singer! sing again; 
And we will listen to the strain, 
Till soaring earth greets bending Heaven, 
And seveji-fold songs grow seventy-seven. 

SUSAN COOLIDGE. 



ti^-i 







MISS I N G E L O VV ' S FORMER HOME. 

BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, ENG. 
ST. liOTGLPH'S CHURCH IN THE DISTANCE. 



POEMS 



BY 



JEAN INGELOW 



IN TWO VOLUMES 
Vol. II. 



BOSTON 

ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1896 



Copyrio/it, ISSl, 1SS5, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



^-- 



Author's Complete Edition. 



mntbersttg ^ress : 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 



CONTENTS OF VOL. 11. 



Page 

Rosamund i 

Echo and the Ferry 3G 

Preludes to a Penny Reading 43 

Kismet 65 

Dora . . . • GO 

Speranza 72 

The Beginning 82 

In the Nursery 87 

The Australian Bell-Bird 89 

Loss and Waste 128 

On a Picture 129 

The Sleep of Sigismund 130 

A Maid-Martyr 1G7 

A Vine- Arbour in the Far West 189 

Lovers at the Lake Side 192 

The White Moon 197 

An Arrow-Slit 198 

Wendover 199 

The Lover Pleads 200 

Song in Three Parts 202 

'Tf I Forget Thee, O Jerusalem' 207 

Nature, for Nature's Sake 216 

Perdita 223 



CONTENTS. 



SERIOUS POEMS, AND SONGS AND POEMS OF 
LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 

Page 

Letters on Life and the Mokning 231 

The Monitions of the Unseen 251 

The Shepherd Lady 273 

Poems on the Deaths of three Children. 

Henry 27G 

Samuel 281 

Katie 285 

The Snowdrop Monument (in Lichfield Cathe- 
dral) 290 

Hymns. 

The Measureless Gulfs of Air are full of 

Thee 293 

Thou wert far off and in the Sight of 

Heaven 294 

Thick Orchards all in White 295 

Sweet are His Ways who rules above . . . 296 

O Night of Nights 297 

Dear is the lost Wife to a lone Man's 

Heart 300 

Weeping and Wailing needs must he ... 301 

Jesus, the Lamb of God 302 

Thou hast been alway good to me 304 

Thou that Sleepest not afraid 305 

Now Winter past, the White-Thorn Bower . 306 

Such as have not Gold to bring Thee . . . 308 

A Morn of Guilt, an Hour of Doom . . . 309 

Mary of Magdala 311 

Would I, to save my Dear Child? 313 

At one again 314 



CONTENTS. vii 

Page 
SOXNETS. 

Fancy 321 

Compensation 321 

Looking Down 322 

Work 323 

Wishing 323 

To 324 

On the Bordeus of Cannock Chase .... 325 

An Ancient Chess King 325 

Comfort in the Night 326 

Though all Great Deeds 327 

A Snow Mountain 327 

Sleep 328 

Promising 329 

Love 329 

Failure 330 

A Birthday Walk 331 

Not in vain I waited 333 

A Gleaning Song 334 

With a Diamond 335 

Married Lovers 336 

A Winter Song 338 

Binding Sheaves 340 

The Mariner's Cave 341 

A Reverie 353 

Defton Wood 355 

The Long White Seam 356 

An Old Wife's Song 357 

Cold and Quiet 360 

Sledge Bells 361 

Midsummer Night, not Dark, not Light . . . 362 

The Bridegroom to his Bride 363 

The Fairy Woman's Song 363 

Above the Clouds 364 



\ 

Viii ^ CONTENTS. 

Page 

Sleep and Time 365 

Bees and other Fellow-Creatures 365 

The Gypsy's Selling Song 366 

A Wooing Song 366 

A Courting Song 367 

Love's Thread of Gold 368 

The Leaves of Lign Aloes 369 

The Days without Alloy 370 

Feathers and Moss 371 

On the Rocks by Aberdeen 372 

Like a Laverock in the Lift 373 

Song for a Babe . 374 

Give us Love and give us Peace 375 

The Two Margarets 

Margaret by the Mere Side . 376 

Margaret in the Xebec 389 

A Story of Doom 415 



POEMS. 



O 



ROSAMUND. 

He blew with His ivituls, and thcij were scattered. 
NE soweth and another reapetli.' 



Ay, 

Too true, too true. One soweth — unaware 

Cometh a reaper stealthily while he dreams — 

Bindeth the golden sheaf, and in his hosom 

As 't were between the devvfall and the dawn 

Bears it away. Who other was to blame ? 

Is it I ? Is it I ? — No verily, not I, 

'T was a good action, and I smart therefore ; 

Oiilivion of a righteous enmity 

^\'rouglit me this wrong. I pay with my self ruth 

Tliat I had ruth toward mine enemy ; 

It needed not to slay mine enemy, 

Only to let him lie and succourless 

Drift to the foot o' the Everlastmg Throne i 

Being mine enemy, he had not accused 

One of my nation there of unkind deeds 

VOL. II. — 1 



ROSAMUND. 

Or ought the way of war forbids. 

Let be ! 
I will not think upon it. Yet she was — 
(), she was dear ; my dutiful, dear child. 
One soweth — Nay, but I will tell this out, 
The first fyte was the best, I call it such 
For now as some old song men think on it. 

I dwell where England narrows running north ; 
And while our hay was cut came rumours up 
Humming and swarming round our heads like bees: 

' Drake from the bay of Cadiz hath come home. 
And they are forth, the Spaniards with a force 
Invincible.' 

' The Prince of Parma, couched 
At Dunkirk, e'en by torchlight makes to toil 
His shipwright thousands — thousands in the ports 
Of Flanders and Brabant. An hundred hendes 
Transports to his great squadron adding, all 
For our confusion,' 

' England's great ally 
Henry of France, by insurrection fallen. 
Of him the said Prince Parma mocking cries, 
He shall not help the Queen of England now 
Not even with his tears, more needing them 
To weep his own misfortune.' 

Was that all 



nosAMi;ND. 3 

The truth ? Not lialf , and yet it was enough 
(Alheit not half that half was well believed), 
For all the laud stirred in the half belief 
As dreamers stir about to wake ; and now 
Comes the Queen's message, all her lieges bid 
To rise, ' lieftenants, and the better sort 
Of gentlemen ' whereby the Queen's grace meant. 
As it may seem the sort that willed to rise 
And arm, and come to aid her. 

Distance wrought 
Safety for us, my neighbours and near friends. 
The peril lay along our channel coast 
And marked the city, undefended fair 
Rich London. O to think of Spanish mail 
Ringing — of riotous conquerors in her street, 
Chasing and frighting (would there were no more 
To think on) her fair wives and her fair maids. 
— But hope is fain to deem them forth of her. 

Then Spain to the sacking; then they tear away 
Arras and carved work. O then they break 
And toss, and mar her quaint orfeverie 
Priceless — then split the wine kegs, spill the mead, 
Trail out the pride of ages in the dust ; 
Turn over with pikes her silken merchandise, 
Strip off the pictures of her kings, and spoil 
Their palaces that nigh five hundred years 
Have rued no alien footsteps on the floor, 



ROSAMUND. 

And work — for the days of miracle are gone — 
All unimaginable waste and woe. 

Some cried, ' But England hath the better cause ; 
We think not those good days indeed are done ; 
We look to Heaven for aid on England's side.' 
Then other, ' Nay, the harvest is above, 
God comforts there His own, and ill men leaves 
To run long scores up in this present world. 
And pay in another. 

Look not here for aid. 
Latimer, poor old saint, died in the street 
With nigh, men say, three hundred of his kind. 
All bid to look for woi'se death after death, 
Succourless, comfortless, unfi-iended, curst. 
Mary, and Gardiner, and the Pope's man Pole 
Died upon down, lulled in a silken shade. 
Soothed with assurance of a waiting heaven, 
And Peter peering through the golden gate. 
With his gold key in 's hand to let them in.' 

*Nay, leave,' quoth I, ' the martyrs to their heaven, 

And all who live the better that they died. 

But look you now, a nation hath no heaven, 

A nation's life and work and wickedness 

And punishment — or otherwise, I say 

A nation's life and goodness and reward 

Are here. And in my nation's righteous cause 



ROSAMUND. 

I look for aid, and cry, So help mk God 
As I will lieljj iny righteous nation now 
With all the best I have, and know, and am, 
I trust Thou wilt not let her light be quenched; 
1 go to aid, and if I fall — I fall, 
And, God of nations, leave my soul to Thee.' 

Many did say like words, and all would give 
Of gold, of weapons, and of horses that 
They had to hand or on the spur o' the time 
Could gather. My fair dame did sell her rings, 
So others. And they sent us well equipped 
Who minded to be in the coming fray 
Whether by land or sea ; my hope the last, 
For I of old therewith was conversant. 

Then as we rode down southward all the land 
Was at her harvesting. The oats were cut_ 
Ere we were three days down, and then the wheat, 
And the wide country spite of loathed threat 
Was busy. There was news to hearten us : 
The Hollanders were coming roundly in 
With sixty ships of war, all fierce, and full 
Of spleen, for not alone our sake but theirs 
Willing to brave encounter where they might. 

So after five days we did sight the Sound, 
And look on Plymouth harbour from the hill. 



IKJSAMUXD. 

Then 1 full glad drew bridle, lighted .stnught, 
Ran down and mingled with a waitiny crowd. 



Many stood gazing on the level deep 

That scarce did tremble ; 't was in hue as sloes 

That hang till winter on a leafless bough, 

So black bulged down upon it a great cloud 

And probed it through and through with forked stabs 

Incessant, and rolled on it thunder bursts 

Till the dark water lowered as one afraid. 



That was afar. The land and nearer sea 

Lay sweltering in hot sunshine. The brown beach 

Scarce whispered, for a soft incoming tide 

Was gentle with it. Green the water lapped 

And sparkled at all edges. The night-heavens 

Are not more thickly speckled o'er with stars 

Than that fair harbour with its fishing craft. 

And crowds of galleys shooting to and fro 

Did feed the ships of war with their stout crews, 

And bear aboard fresh water, furniture 

Of war, much lesser victual, sallets, fruit. 

All manner equipment for the squadron, sails, 

Long spars. 

Also was chaffering on the Iloe, 
Buying and bargaining, taking of leave 
With tears and kisses, while on all hands jiushed 



ROSAMUND. 

Tall lusty men with baskets on their heads 
Piled of fresh bread, and biscuit newly drawn. 

Then shouts, ' The captains ! ' 

Raleigh, Hawkins, Drakt 
Old Martin Frobisher, and many more ; 
Howard, the Lord High Admiral, headed them — 
They coming leisurely from the bowling green, 
Elbowed their way. For in their stoutness loth 
To hurry when ill news first brake on them. 
They playing a match ashore — ill news I say, 
' The Spaniards are toward ' — while panic-struck 
The people ran about them, Drake cries out, 
Knowing their fear should make the danger worse, 
' Spaniards, my masters ! Let the Spaniards wait. 
Fall not a-shouting for the boats ; is time 
To play the match out, ay to win, and then 
To beat the Spaniards.' 

So the rest gave way 
At his insistance, playing that afternoon 
The bravest match (one saith) was ever scored. 

'T was no time lost ; nay, not a moment lost ; 
For look you, when the winning cast was made. 
The town was calm, the anchors were all up, 
The boats were manned to row them each to his ship, 
The lowering cloud in the offin^ had stone south 



ROSAMUND. 

Against the wind, and all was work, stir, heed, 
Nothing forgot, nor grudged, nor slurred, and most 
Men easy at heart as those brave sailors seemed. 

And specially the women had put by 

On a sudden their deep dread ; yon Cornish coast 

Neared of his insolency by the foe. 

With his high seacastles numerous, seaforts 

Many, his galleys out of number, manned 

Each by three hundred slaves chained to the oar ; 

All his strong fleet of lesser ships, but great 

As any of ours — why that same Cornish coast 

Might have lain farther than the far west land, 

So had a few stout-hearted looks and words 

Wasted the meaning, chilled the menace of 

That frightful danger, imminent, hard at hand. 

* The captains come, the captains ! ' and I turned 
As they drew on. I marked the urgency 
Flashing in each man's eye : fain to be forth 
But willing to be held at leisure. Then 
Cried a fair woman of the better sort 
To Howard, passing by her pannier'd ass, 
' Apples, Lord Admiral, good captains all, 
Look you, red apples sharp and sweet are these.' 

Quoth he a little chafed, ' Let be, let be, 
No time is this for bargaining, good dame. 



ROSAMUND. y 

Let be ; ' and pushing past, ' Beshrew thy heart 
(And mine that 1 should say it), bargain ! nay. 
I meant not bargaining,' she falters ; crying, 
' I brought them my poor gift. Pray you now take, 
Pray you.' 

He stops, and with a childlike smile 
That makes the dame amend, stoops down to choose, 
While I step up that love not many words, 
' What should he do,' quoth I, ' to help this need 
That hath a bag of money, and good will ? ' 
' Charter a ship,' he saith, nor e'er looks up, 
' And put aboard her victual, tackle, shot, 
Ought he can lay his hand on — look he give 
Wide sea room to the Spanish hounds, make sail 
For ships of ours, to ease of wounded men, 
And succour with that freight he brings withal.' 

His foot, yet speaking, was aboard his boat. 

His comrades, each red apples in the hand, 

Come after, and with blessings manifold 

Cheering, and cries, ' Good luck, good luck ! ' they speed. 

'T was three years three months past. 

O yet methinks 
I hear that thunder crash i' the offing ; hear 
Their words who when the crowd melted away 
Gathered together. Comrades we of old, 
About to adventure us at Howard's best 



10 ROSAMUND. 

On the unsafe sea. For he, a Catholic, 

As is my wife, and therefore my one child, 

Detested and defied th' most Catholic King 

Philip. He, trusted of her grace — and cause 

She had, the nation following suit — he deemed, 

'T was whisper'd, ay and Raleigh, and Francis Drake 

No less, the event of battle doubtfuller 

Than English tongue might own ; the peril dread 

As ought in this world ever can be deemed 

That is not yet past praying for. 

So far 
So good. As birds awaked do stretch their wings 
The ships did stretch forth sail, full clad they towered 
And right into the sunset went, hull down 
E'en with the sun. 

To us in twilight left, 
Glory being over, came despondent thought 
That mocked men's eager act. From many a hill, 
As if the land complained to Heaven, they sent 
A towering shaft of murky incense high. 
Livid with black despair in lieu of praise. 
The green wood hissed at every beacon's edge 
That widen'd fear. The smell of pitchpots fled 
Far over the field, and tongues of fire leaped up. 
Ay, till all England woke, and knew, and wailed. 

But we i' the night through that detested reek 
Rode eastward. Every mariner's voice was given 



ROSAML'ND. 11 

'Gainst any fear for the western shires. The cry 
Was all, ' They sail for Calais roads, and thence, 
The goal is London.' 

Nought slept, man nor beast. 
Ravens and rooks Hew forth, and with black wings, 
Affrighted, swept our eyes. Pale eddying moths 
Came by in crowds and whirled them on the flames. 

We rode till pierced those beacon fires the shafts 
O' the sun, and their red smouldering ashes dulled. 
Beside them, scorched, smoke-blackened, weary, leaned 
Men that had fed them, dropped their tired arms 
And dozed. 

And also through that day we rode. 
Till reapers at their nooning sat awhile 
On the shady side of corn-shocks : all the talk 
Of high, of low, or them that went or stayed 
Determined but unhopeful ; desperate 
To strike a blow for England ere she fell. 

And ever loomed the Spaniard to our thought. 

Still waxed the fame of that great Armament — 

New horsemen joining, swelled it more and more — 

Their bulky ship galleons having five decks, 

Zabraes, pataches, galleys of Portugal, 

Caravels rowed with oars, their galliasses 

Vast, and complete with chapels, chambers, towers. 



12 ROSAMUND. 

And in the said ships of free mariners 
Eight thousand, and of slaves two thousand more, 
An army twenty thousand strong. O then 
Of culverin, of double culverin, 
Ordnance and arms, all furniture of war, 
Victual, and last their fierceness and great spleen. 
Willing to founder, burn, split, wreck themselves, 
But they would land, fight, overcome, and reign. 

Then would we count up England. Set by theirs, 

Her fleet as walnut shells. And a few pikes 

Stored in the belfries, and a few brave men 

For wielding them. But as the morning wore. 

And we went ever eastward, ever on, 

Poured forth, poured down, a marching multitude 

With stir about the towns ; and waggons rolled 

With offerings for the army and the fleet. 

Then to our hearts valour crept home again, 

The loathed name of Alva fanning it ; 

Alva who did convert from our old faith 

With many a black deed done for a white cause 

(So spake they erewhile to it dedicate) 

Them whom not death could change, nor fire, nor sword, 

To thirst for his undoing. 

Ay, as I am a Christian man, our thii-st 
Was comparable with Queen ]\Iary\s. All 



ROSAMfJND. 13 

The talk was of confounding heretics, 

The heretics the Spaniards. Yet methought, 

' O their great multitude ! Not harbour room 

On our long coast for that great multitude. 

They land — for who can let them — give us battle, 

And after give us burial. Who but they, 

For he that liveth shall be flying north 

To bear off wife and child. Our very graves 

Shall Spaniards dig, and in the daisied grass 

Trample them down.' 

Ay, whoso will be brave, 
Let him be brave beforehand. After th' event 
If by good pleasure of God it go as then 
He shall be brave an' liketh him. I say 
Was no man but that deadly peril feared. 

Nights riding two. Scant rest. Days riding three, 
Then Foulkstone. Need is none to tell all forth 
The gathering stores and men, the charter'd ship 
That I, with two, my friends, got ready for sea. 
Ready she was, so many another, small 
But nimble ; and we sailing hugged the shore, 
Scarce venturing out, so Drake had willed, a league, 
And running westward aye as best we might. 
When suddenly — behold them ! 

On they rocked, 
Majestical, slow, sailing with the wind. 
O such a sight ! O such a sight, mine eyes, 



14 ROSAMUND. 

Never shall you see more ! 

In crescent form, 
A vasty crescent nigh two leagues across 
From horn to horn, the lesser ships within. 
The great without, they did bestride as 't were 
And make a township on the narrow seas. 

It was about the point of dawn : and light. 
All grey the sea, and ghostly grey the ships ; 
And after in the offing rocked our fleet, 
Having lain quiet in the summer dark. 

O then methought, ' Flash, blessed gold of dawn, 
And touch the topsails of our Admiral, 
That he may after guide an emulous flock, 
Old England's innocent white bleating lambs. 
Let Spain within a pike's length hear them bleat, 
Delivering of their pretty talk in a tongue 
Whose meaning cries not for interpreter.' 

And while I spoke, their topsails, friend and foe, 
Glittered — and there was noise of guns ; pale suj 
Lagged after, curdling on the sun-fleck'd main. 
And after that ? What after that, my soul ? 
Who ever saw weakling white butterflies 
Chasing of gallant swans, and charging them. 
And spitting at them long red streaks of flame ? 



ROSAMUND. 15 

We saw the ships of England even so 
As in my vaunting wish tliat mocked itself 
With ' Fool, O fool, to brag at the edge of loss.' 
We saw the ships of England even so 
Run at the Spaniards on a wind, lay to, 
Bespatter them with hail of battle, then 
Take their prerogative of nimble steerage. 
Fly off, and ere the enemy, heavy in hand, 
Delivered his reply to the wasteful wave 
That made its grave of foam, race out of range, 
Then tack and crowd all sail, and after them 
Again. 

So harass'd they that mighty foe. 
Moving in all its bravery to the east. 
And some were tine with pictures of the saints. 
Angels with flying hair and peaked wings. 
And high red crosses wrought upon their sails ; 
From every mast brave flag or ensign flew, 
And their long silken pennons serpented 
Loose to the morning. And the galley slaves. 
Albeit their chains did clink, sang at the oar. 

The sea was striped e'en like a tiger skin 
With wide ship wakes. 

And many cried, amazed, 
' What means their patience ? ' 

' Lo you,' others said, 
' They pay with fear for their great costliness. 



16 ROSAMUND. 

Some of their costliest needs must other guard ; 
Once guarded and in port look to yourselves, 
They count one hundred and fifty. It behoves 
Better they suffer this long running fight — 
Better for them than that they give us battle. 
And so delay the shelter of their roads. 

' Two of their caravels we sank, and one 

(Fouled with her consort in the rigging) took 

Ere she could catch the wind when she rode free. 

And we have riddled many a sail, and split 

Of spars a score or two. What then ? To-morrow 

They look to straddle across the strait, and hold — 

Having aye Calais for a shelter — hold 

Our ships in fight. To-morrow shall give account 

For our to-day. They will not we pass north 

To meddle with Parma's flotilla ; their hope 

Being Parma, and a convoy they would be 

For his flat boats that bode invasion to us ; 

And if he reach to London — ruin, defeat.' 

Three fleets the sun went down on, theirs of fame 
Th' Armada. After space old England's few ; 
And after that our dancing cockle-shells, 
The volunteers. They took some pride in us. 
For we were nimble, and we brought them powder, 
Shot, weapons. They were short of these. Ill found, 
111 found. The bitter fruit of evil tlirift. 



ROSAMUND. 17 

But while obsequious, darting here and there, 
We took their messages from ship to ship. 
From ship to shore, the moving majesties 
Made Calais Roads, cast anchor, all their less 
In the middle ward ; their greater ships outside 
Impregnable castles fearing not assault. 

So did we read their thought, and read it wrong, 
While after the running fight we rode at ease, 
For many (as is the way of Englishmen) 
Having made light of our stout deeds, and light 
O' the effects proceeding, saw these spread 
To view. The Spanish Admiral's mighty host, 
Albeit not broken, harass'd. 

Some did tow 
Others that we had plagued, disabled, rent ; 
Many full heavily damaged made their berths. 

Then did the English anchor out of range. 

To close was not their wisdom with such foe, 

Rather to chase him, following in the rear. 

Ay, truly they were giants in our eyes 

And in our own. They took scant heed of us. 

And we looked on, and knew not what to think, 

Only that we were lost men, a lost Isle, 

In every Spaniard's mind, both great and small. 

But no such thought had place in Howard's soul. 
And when 't was dark, and all their sails were furled, 

VOL. II. — 2 



18 ROSAMUND. 

When tlie wind veered a few points to the west, 
And the tide turned ruffling along the roads, 
He sent eight fireships forging down to them. 

Terrible ! Terrible ! 

Blood-red pillars of reek 
They looked on that vast host and troubled it, 
As on th' Egyptian host One looked of old. 

Then all the heavens were rent with a great cry, 

The red avengers went right on, right on. 

For none could let them ; then was ruin, reek, flame ; 

Against th' unwieldy huge leviathans 

They drave, they fell upon them as wild beasts, 

And all together they did plunge and grind. 

Their reefed sails set a-blazing, these flew loose 

And forth like banners of destruction sped. 

It was to look on as the body of hell 

Seething ; and some, their cables cut, ran foul 

Of one the other, while the ruddy fire 

Sped on aloft. One ship was stranded. One 

Foundered, and went down burning ; all the sea 

Red as an angry sunset was made fell 

With smoke and blazing spars that rode upright. 

For as the fireships burst they scattered forth 

Full dangerous wreckage. All the sky they scored 

With flying sails and rocking masts, and yards 

Licked of long flames. And flitting tinder sank 



ROSAMUND. 19 

In eddies on the plagued mixed mob of ships 
That cared no more for harbour, and were fain 
At any hazard to be forth, and leave 
Their berths in the blood-red haze. 

It was at twelve 
O' the clock when this fell out, for as the eight 
Were towed, and left upon the friendly tide 
To stalk like evil angels over the deep 
And stare upon the Spaniards, we did hear 
Their midnight bells. It was at morning dawn 
After our mariners thus had harried them 
I looked my last upon their fleet, — and all, 
That night had cut their cables, put to sea, 
And scattering wide towards the Flemish coast 
Did seem to make for Greveline. 

As for us, 
The captains told us off to wait on them. 
Bearers of wounded enemies and friends. 
Bearers of messages, bearers of store. 

We saw not ought, but heard enough : we heard 
(And God be thanked) of that long scattering chase 
And driving of Sidonia from his hope, 
Parma, who could not ought without his ships 
And looked for them to break the Dutch blockade. 
He meanwhile chafing lion-like in his lair. 
We heard — and he — for all one summer day, 
Penning and Drake and Raynor, Fenton, Cross, 



20 ROSAMUND. 

And more, by Greveline, where they once again 

Did get the wind o' the Spaniards, noise of guns. 

For coming with the wind, wielding themselves 

Which way they listed (while in close array 

The Spaniards stood but on defence), our own 

Went at them, charged them high and charged them sore. 

And gave them broadside after broadside. Ay, 

Till all the shot was spent both great and small. 

It failed ; and in regard of that same want 

They thought it not convenient to pursue 

Their vessels farther. 

They were huge withal. 
And might not be encounter'd one to one, 
But close conjoined they fought, and poured great store 
Of ordnance at our ships, though many of theirs, 
Shot thorow and thorow, scarce might keep afloat. 

Many were captured fighting, many sank. 

This news they brought returned perforce, and left 

The Spaniards forging north. Themselves did watch 

The river mouth, till Howard, his new store 

Gathered, encounter coveting, once more 

Made after them with Drake. 

And lo ! the wind 
Got up to help us. He yet flying north 
(Their doughty Admiral) made all his wake 
To smoke, and would not end to fight, but strewed 
The ocean with his wreckasre. And the wind 



ROSAMUND. 21 

Drave him before it, and the storm was fell, 
And he went up to tli' uncouth northern sea. 

There did our mariners leave him. Then did joy 
Run like a sunbeam over the land, and joy 
Rule in the stout heart of a regnant Queen. 

But now the counsel came, ' Every man home, 
For after Scotland rounded, when he curves 
Southward, and all the batter'd armament. 
What hinders on our undefended coast 
To laud where'er he listeth ? Every man 
Home.' 

And we mounted and did open forth 
Like a great fan, to east, to north, to west. 
And rumour met us flying, filtering 
Down through the border. News of wicked joy. 
The wreckers rich in the Faroes, and the Isles 
Orkney, and all the clansmen full of gear 
Gathered from helpless mariners tempted in 
To their undoing ; while a treacherous crew 
Let the storm work upon their lives its will, 
Spoiled them and gathered all their riches up. 
Then did they meet like fate from Irish kernes. 
Who dealt with them according to their wont. 

In a great storm of wind that tore green leaves 
And dashed them wet upon me, came I home. 



22 ROSAMUND. 

Then greeted me my dame, and Rosamund, 
Our one dear child, the heir of these my fields — 
That I should sigh to think it ! There, no more. 

Being right weary I betook me straight 

To longed-for sleep, and I did dream and dream 

Through all that dolourous storm; though noise of guns 

Daunted the country in the moonless night. 

Yet sank I deep and deeper in the dream 

And took my fill of rest. 

A voice, a touch, 
' Wake.' Lo ! my wife beside me, her wet hair 
She wrung with her wet hands, and cried, ' A ship ! 
I have been down the beach. O pitiful ! 
A Spanish ship ashore between the rocks, 
And none to guide our people. Wake.' 

Then I 
Raised on mine elbow looked ; it was high day ; 
In the windy pother seas came in like smoke 
That blew among the trees as fine small rain, 
And then the broken water sun-besprent 
Glitter'd, fell back and showed her high and fast 
A caravel, a pinnace that methought 
To some great ship had longed ; her hap alone 
Of all that multitude it was to drive 
Between this land of England her right foe, 
And that most cruel, where (for all their faith 
Was one) no drop of water mote they drink 



ROSAMUND. 23 

For love of God nor love of gold. 

I rose 
And hasted ; I was soon among the folk, 
But late for work. The crew, spent, faint, and bruised, 
Saved for the most part of our men, lay prone 
In grass, and women served them bread and mead, 
Other the sea laid decently alone 
Ready for burial. And a litter stood 
In shade. Upon it lying a goodly man, 
The govourner or the captain as it seemed, 
Dead in his stiff gold-broider'd bravery, 
And epaulet and sword. They must have loved 
That man, for many had died to bring him in, 
Their boats stove in were stranded here and there. 
In one — but how I know not — brought they him. 
And he was laid upon a folded flag, 
Many times doubled for his greater ease, 
That was our thought — and we made signs to them 
He should have sepulture. But when they knew 
They must needs leave him, for some marched them off 
For more safe custody, they made great moan. 

After, with two my neighbours drawing nigh, 
One of them touched the Spaniard's hand and said, 
' Dead is he but not cold ; ' the other then, 
' Nay in good truth methinks he be not dead.' 
Again the first, ' An' if he breatheth yet 
He lies at his last gasp.' And this went off, 



24 ROSAMUND. 

And left us two, that by the litter stayed, 
Looking on one another, and we looked 
(For neither willed to speak), and yet looked on. 
Then would he have me know the meet was fixed 
For nme o' the clock, and to be brief with you 
He left me. And I had the Spaniard home. 
What other could be done ? I had him home. 
Men on his litter bare him, set him down 
In a fair chamber that was nigh the hall. 

And yet he waked not from his deathly swoon, 
Albeit my wife did try her skill, and now 
Bad lay him on a bed, when lo the folds 
Of that great ensign covered store of gold, 
Rich Spanish ducats, raiment, Moorish blades 
Chased in right goodly wise, and missals rare, 
And other gear. I locked it for my part 
Into an armoury, and that fair flag 
(While we did talk full low till he should end) 
Spread over him. Methought, the man shall die 
Under his country's colours ; he was brave. 
His deadly wound to that doth testify. 

And when 't was seemly order'd, Rosamund, 
My daughter, who had looked not yet on death, 
Came in, a face all marvel, pity, and dread — 
Lying against her shoulder sword-long flowers. 
White hollyhocks to cross upon his breast. 



ROSAMUND. 2b 

Slowly she turned as of that sight afeard, 
But while with daunted heart she moved anigh, 
His eyelids quiver'd, quiver'd then the lip, 
And he, reviving, with a sob looked up 
And set on her the midnight of his eyes. 

Then she, in act to place the burial gift 
Bending above him, and her flaxen hair 
Fall'n to her haiid, drew back and stood upright 
Comely and tall, her innocent fair face 
Cover'd with blushes more of joy than shame. 
' Father,' she cried, ' O father, I am glad. 
Look you ! the enemy liveth.' ' 'T is enough, 
My maiden,' quoth her mother, ' thou may'st forth, 
But say an Ave first for him with me,' 

Then they with hands upright at foot o' his bed 
Knelt, his dark dying eyes at gaze on them. 
Till as I think for wonder at them, more 
Than for his proper strength, he could not die. 

So in obedient wise my daughter risen. 
And going, let a smile of comforting cheer 
Lift her sweet lip, and that was all of her 
For many a night and day that he beheld. 

And then withal my dame, a leech of skill, 
Tended the Spaniard fain to heal his wound, 
Her women aiding at their best. And he 



26 ROSAMUND. 

'Tvvixt life and death awaken'd in the night 

Full oft in his own tongue would make his moan, 

And when he whisper'd any word I knew, 

If I was present, for to pleasure him. 

Then made I repetition of the same. 

' Cordova,' quoth he faintly, ' Cordova,' 

'T was the first word he mutter'd. ' Ay, we know,' 

Quoth I, ' the stoutness of that fight ye made 

Against the Moors and their Mahometry, 

And dispossess'd the men of fame, the fierce 

Khalifs of Cordova — thy home belike, 

Thy city. A fair city Cordova.' 

Then after many days, while his wound healed, 
He with abundant seemly sign set forth 
His thanks, but as for language had we none. 
And oft he strove and failed to let us know 
Some wish he had, but could not, so a week. 
Two weeks went by. Then Eosamund my girl. 
Hearing her mother plain on this, she saith, 
* So please you, madam, show the enemy 
A Psalter in our English tongue, and fetch 
And give him that same book my father found 
Wrapped in the ensign. Are they not the same 
Those holy words ? The Spaniard being devout. 
He needs must know them.' 

' Peace, thou pretty fool ! 
Is this a time to teach an alien tongue ? ' 



ROSAMUND. 27 

Her mother made for answer. ' He is sick, 

The Spaniard.' ' Cry you mercy,' quoth my girl, 

' But I did think 't were easy to let show 

How both the Psalters are of meaning like ; 

If he know Latin, and 't is like he doth, 

So might he choose a verse to tell his thought.' 

Then said I (ay, I did !) ' The girl shall try,' 
And straight I took her to the Spaniard's side, 
And he, admiring at her, all his face 
Changed to a joy that almost showed as fear, 
So innocent holy she did look, so grave 
Her pitiful eyes. 

She sat beside his bed, 
He covered with the ensign yet ; and took 
And showed the Psalters both, and she did speak 
Her English words, but gazing was enough 
For him at her sweet dimple, her blue eyes 
That shone, her English blushes. Rosamund, 
My beautiful dear child. He did but gaze, 
And not perceive her meaning till she touched 
His hand, and in her Psalter showed the word. 

Then was all light to him ; he laughed for joy. 
And took the Latin Missal. O full soon, 
Alas, how soon, one read the other's thought ! 
Before she left him, she had learned his name 
Alonzo, told him hers, and found the care 



28 ROSAMUND. 

Made night and day uneasy — Cordova, 
There dwelt his father, there his kin, nor knew 
Whether he lived or died, whether in thrall 
To the Islanders for lack of ransom pined 
Or rued the galling yoke of slavery. 

So did he cast him on our kindness. I — 
And care not who may know it — I was kind. 
And for that our stout Queen did think foul scorn 
To kill the Spanish prisoners, and to guard 
So many could not, liefer being to rid 
Our country of them than to spite their own, 
I made him as I might that matter learn. 
Eking scant Latin with my daughter's wit, 
And told him men let forth and driven forth 
Did crowd our harbours for the ports of Spain, 
By one of whom, he, with good aid of mine. 
Should let his tidings go, and I plucked forth 
His ducats that a meet reward might be. 
Then he, the water standing in his eyes. 
Made old King David's words due thanks convey. 

Then Rosamund, this all made j^lain, arose 
And curtsey'd to the Spaniard. Ah, methinks 
I yet behold her, gracious, innocent, 
And flaxen-haired, and blushing maidenly. 
When turning she retired, and his black eyes, 
That hunger'd after her, did follow on ; 



ROSAMUND. 29 

And I bethought me, ' Thou shalt see no more, 
Thou goodly enemy, my one ewe lamb.' 

O, I would make short work of this. The w^ound 
Healed, and the Spaniard rose, then could he stand. 
And then about his chamber walk at ease. 

Now we had counsell'd how to have him home, 
And that same trading vessel beating up 
The Irish Channel at my will, that same 
I charter'd for to serve me in the war. 
Next was I minded should mine enemy 
Deliver to his father, and his land. 
Daily we looked for her, till in our cove. 
Upon that morn when first the Spaniard walked, 
Behold her rocking ; and I hasted down 
And left him waiting in the house. 

Woe 's me ! 
All being ready speed I home, and lo 
My Rosamund, that by the Spaniard sat 
Upon a cushion'd settle, book in hand. 
I needs must think how in the deep alcove 
Thick chequer'd shadows of the window-glass 
Did fall across her kirtle and her locks. 
For I did see her thus no more. 

She held 
Her Psalter, and he his, and slowly read 
Till he would stop her at the needed word. 
' O well is thee,' she read, my Rosamund, 



30 ROSAMUND. 

' O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be. 
Thy wife — ' and there he stopped her, and he took 
And kissed her hand, and show'd in 's own a ring, 
Taking no heed of me, no heed at all. 

Then I burst forth, the choler red i' my face 
When I did see her blush, and put it on. 
' Give me,' quoth I, and Rosamund, afraid, 
Gave me the ring. I set my heel on it, 
Crushed it, and sent the rubies scattering forth, 
And did in righteous anger storm at him. 
' What ! what ! ' quoth I, ' before her father's eyes, 
Thou universal villain, thou ingrate, 
Thou enemy whom I shelter'd, fed, restored. 
Most basest of mankind ! ' And Rosamund, 
Arisen, her forehead pressed against mine arm, 
And ' Father,' cries she, ' fatlier.' 

And I stormed 
At him, while in his Spanish he replied 
As one would speak me fair. ' Thou Spanish hound ! 
' Father,' she pleaded. ' Alien vile,' quoth I, 
' Plucked from the death, wilt thou repay me thus ? 
It is but three times thou hast set thine eyes 
On this my daughter.' ' Father,' moans my girl ; 
And I, not willing to be so withstood. 
Spoke roughly to her. Then the Spaniard's eyes 
Blazed — then he stormed at me in his own tongue. 
And all his Spanish arrogance and pride 



ROSAMUND. 31 

Broke witless on my wrathful English. Then 
He let me know, for I perceived it well, 
He reckon'd him mine equal, thought foul scorn 
Of my displeasure, and was wroth with me 
As I with him. ' Father,' sighed Rosamund. 
' Go, get thee to thy mother, girl,' quoth I. 
And slowly, slowly, she betook herself 
Down the long hall ; in lowly wise she went 
And made her moans. 

But when my girl was gone 
I stood at fault, th' occasion master'd me ; 
Belike it master'd him, for both felt mute. 
I calmed me, and he calmed him as he might, 
For I bethought me I was yet an host. 
And he bethought him on the worthiness 
Of my first deeds. 

So made I sign to him. 
The tide was up, and soon I had him forth. 
Delivered him his goods, commended him 
To the captain o' the vessel, then plucked off 
My hat, in seemly fashion taking leave. 
And he was not outdone, but every way 
Gave me respect, and on the deck we two 
Parted, as I did hope, to meet no more. 

Alas ! my Rosamund, my Rosamund ! 
She did not weep, no. Plain upon me, no. 
Her eyes mote well have lost the trick of tears : 



32 ROSAMUND. 

As new-washed flowers shake off the down-dropt rain, 

And make denial of it, yet more blue 

And fair of favour afterward, so they. 

The wild woodrose was not more fresh of blee 

Than her soft dimpled cheek : but I beheld, 

Come home, a token hung about her neck. 

Sparkling upon her bosom for his sake, 

Her love, the Spaniard, she denied it not. 

All unaware, good sooth, such love was bale. 

And all that day went like another day. 
Ay, all the next ; then was I glad at heart ; 
Methought, ' I am glad thou wilt not waste thy youth 
Upon an alien man, mine enemy. 
Thy nation's enemy. In truth, in truth, 
This likes me very well. My most dear child, 
Forget yon grave dark mariner. The Lord 
Everlasting,' I besought, ' bring it to pass.' 

Stealeth a darker day within my hall, 
A winter day of wind and driving foam. 
They tell me that my girl is sick — and yet 
Not very sick. I may not hour by hour, 
More than one watching of a moon that wanes, 
Make chronicle of change. A parlous change 
When he looks back to that same moon at full. 

Ah ! ah ! methought, 't will pass. It did not pass, 
Thouijh never she made moan. I saw the rings 



ROSAMUND. 

Drop from her small white wasted hand. And I, 
Her father, tamed of grief, I would have given 
My land, my name to have her as of old. 
Ay, Rosamund I speak of with the small 
White face. Ay, Rosamund. O near as white, 
And mournfuller by much, her mother dear 
Drooped by her couch ; and while of hope and fear 
Lifted or left, as by a changeful tide. 
We thought ' The girl is better,' or we thought 
' The girl will die,' that jewel from her neck 
She drew, and prayed me send it to her love ; 
A token she was true e'en to the end. 
What matter'd now ? But whom to send, and how 
To reach the man ? I found an old poor priest, 
Some peril 't was for him and me, she writ 
My pretty Rosamund her heart's farewell, 
She kissed the letter, and that old poor priest. 
Who had eaten of my bread, and shelter'd him 
Under my roof in troublous times, he took, 
And to content her on this errand went, 
While she as done with earth did wait the end. 

Mankind bemoan them on the bitterness 

Of death. Nay, rather let them chide the grief 

Of living, chide the waste of mother-love 

For babes that joy to get away to God ; 

The waste of work and moil and thouglit and thrift 

And father-love for sons that heed it not, 

VOL, II. — 3 



34 ROSAMUND. 

And daughters lost and gone. Ay, let them chide 
These. Yet I chide not. That which I have done 
Was rightly done ; and what thereon befell 
Could make no right a wrong, e'en were 't to do 
Again. 

I will be brief. The days drag on, 
My soul forebodes her death, my lonely age. 
Once I despondent in the moaning wood 
Look out, and lo a caravel at sea, 
A man that climbs the rock, and presently 
The Spaniard ! 

I did greet him, proud no more. 
He had braved durance, as I knew, ay death, 
To land on th' Island soil. In broken words 
Of English he did ask me how she fared. 
Quoth I, < She is dying, Spaniard ; Rosamund 
My girl will die ; ' but he is fain, saith he, 
To talk with her, and all his mind to speak ; 
I answer, ' Ay, my whilomc enemy. 
But she is dying.' ' Nay, now nay,' quoth he, 
' So be she liveth,' and he moved me yet 
For answer ; then quoth I, ' Come life, come death, 
What thou wilt, say.' 

Soon made we Rosamund 
Aware, she lying on the settle, wan 
As a lily in the shade, and while she not 
Believed for marvelling, comes he roundly in. 
The tall grave Spaniard, and with but one smile, 



ROSAMUND. 35 

One look of ruth upon her small pale face, 
All slowly as with unaccustom'd mouth, 
Betakes him to that English he hath conned. 
Setting the words out plain : 

' Child ! Rosamund ! 
Love ! An so please thee, I would be thy man. 
By all the saints will I be good to thee. 
Come.' 

Come ! what think you, would she come ? Ay, ay. 
They love us, but our love is not their life. 
For the dark mariner's love lived Rosamund. 
Soon for his kiss she bloomed, smiled for his smile. 
(The Spaniard reaped e'en as th' Evangel saith, 
And bore in 's bosom forth my golden sheaf.) 
She loved her father and her mother well, 
But loved the Spaniard better. It was sad 
To part, but she did part ; and it was far 
To go, but she did go. The priest was brought. 
The ring was bless'd that bound my Rosamund, 
She sailed, and I shall never see her more. 

One soweth and another reapeth. Ay, 
Too true ! too true ! 



36 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

AY, Oliver ! I was but seven, and he was eleven ; 
He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed 
where I stood. 
They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven ! 
A small guest at the farm) ; but he said, ' Oh, a girl was 

no good ! ' 
So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the 

wood. 
It was sad, it was sorrowful ! Only a girl — only seven ! 
At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. 
The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue birds 

flash'd about, 
And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven ? 
I thought so. Yes, everyone else was eleven — eleven ! 

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, 
And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was 

litter'd ; 
And under and over the branches those little birds 

twitter'd. 
While hanging head downwards they scolded because I 

was seven. 
A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 37 

But soou I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, 
And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. 
Then I knew ! for 1 peeped, and I felt it was right they 

should scold ! 
Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into 

laughter ; 
And then some one else — oh, how softly ! — came after, 

came after 
With laughter — with laughter came after. 

And no one was near us to utter that sweet mocking call, 

That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. 

But this was the country — perhaps it was close under 

heaven ; 
Oh, nothing so likely ; the voice might have come from 

it even. 
I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this 
Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings not at all. 
Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver : 
She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile 

small, 
Then flashed down her hole like a dart — like a dart from 

the quiver. 



— So this was the country ; clear dazzle of azure and 

shiver 
And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall 



38 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

AVhite branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the 

wall — 
A little low wall — and looked over, and there was the 

river, 
The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet 

river 
Clear shining and slow, she had far far to go from her 

snow ; 
But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard 

her long flow, 
And she murmur'd, methought, with a speech very soft — 

very low. 
'The ways will be long, but the days will be long,' quoth 

the river, 
' To me a long liver, long, long ! ' quoth the river — the 

river. 

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the 

sky, 
The voice that had mocked coming after and over and 

under. 
But at last — in a day or two namely — Eleven and I 
Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. 
He said that was Echo. ' Was Echo a wise kind of bee 
That had learned how to laugh : could it laugh in one's 

ear and then fly 
And laugh again yonder ? ' ' No ; Echo ' — he whispered 

it low — 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 39 

' Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one 

could see 
And no one could find; and he did not believe it, 

not he, 
But he could not get near for the river that held us 

asunder. 
Yet I that had money — a shilling, a whole silver 

shilling — 
We might cross if I thought I would spend it.' ' Oh yes, 

I was willing ' — 
And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the 

ferry. 
And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice 

clear and merry 
When they called for the ferry ; but oh ! she was very — 

was very 
Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone ; and when Oliver 

cried, 
' Hie over ! hie over ! you man of the ferry — the ferry ! ' 
By the still water's side she was heard far and wide — she 

replied 
And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, ' You man 

of the ferry, 
You man of — you man of the ferry ! ' 

' Hie over ! ' he shouted. The ferryman came at his 

calling, 
Across the clear reed-border'd river he ferried us fast ; — 



40 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

Such a chase ! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on ; 

it sui'pass'd 
All measure her doubling — so close, then so far away 

falling, 
Then gone, and no more. Oh ! to see her but once 

unaware. 
And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet 

sure she was there !), 
Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance 

fair. 

"We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in 

her stead ; 
In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked 

overhead ; 
By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, 

in brown — 
Not Echo, fair Echo ! for Echo, sweet Echo ! was flown. 
So we came to the place where the dead people wait till 

God call. 
The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over 

wall. 
Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy 

mound 
And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her 

round 
Might have come in to hide there. But no ; every oak- 

carven seat 



ECHO AND THE FERRY. 41 

Was empty. We saw the great Bible — old, oM, very 

old, 
And the parson's great Prayer-book beside it ; we heard 

the slow beat 
Of the pendulum swing in the tower ; we saw the clear 

gold 
Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and 

play 
On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver 

said, 
' Look, Katie ! look, Katie ! when Lettice came here to 

be wed 
She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white 

was her gown ; 
And she stepped upon flowers they strew'd for her.' Then 

quoth small Seven : 
' Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon 

ever ? ' 
All doubtful : ' It takes a long time to grow up,' quoth 

Eleven ; 
' You 're so little, you know, and the church is so old, it 

can never 
Last on till you 're tall.' And in whispers — because it 

was old 
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, 

but not told. 
Full of old parsons' prayers, who were dead, of old days, 

of old folk, 



42 ECHO AND THE FERRY. 

Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we 

spoke. 
Then we went from it softly and ran hand in hand to the 

strand, 
While bleating of flocks and birds' piping made sweeter 

the land. 
And Echo came back e'en as Oliver drew to the ferry, 
' O Katie ! ' '0 Katie ! ' ' Come on, then ! ' ' Come on, 

then ! ' ' For, see, 
The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree ' — 'by the 

tree.' 
' By the tree.' Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice 

sweet and merry : 
* Hie over ! ' ' Hie over ! ' ' You man of the ferry ' — 

' the ferry,' 

' You man of the ferry — 

You man of — you man of — the ferry.' 

Ay, here — it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old ; 
All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. 
Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my 

white 
To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me 

anon? 
Will it all seem an echo from childhood pass'd over — 

pass'd on ? 
Will the grave parson bless us ? Hark, hark ! in the dim 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 43 

I hear her ! As then the child's voice clear and high, 
sweet and merry 

Now she mocks the man's tone with ' Hie over ! Hie 
over the ferry ! ' 

' And, Katie.' ' And, Katie.' ' Art out with the glow- 
worms to-night, 

My Katie ? ' ' My Katie ! ' For gladness I break into 
laughter 

And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away 
years ; 

Again, some one else — oh, how softly ! — with laughter 
comes after, 

Comes after — with lau2;hter comes after. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

A Schoolroom. 
Schoolmaster {not certijicated), Vicar, and Child. 

jylCAR. Why did you send for me? I hope all 's 

^ right ? 

Schoolmaster. Well, sir, we thought this end o' the room 

was dark. 
V. Indeed ! So 't is. There 's my new study lamp — 
S. 'T would stand, sir, well beside yon laurel wreath. 
Shall I go fetch it ? 



44 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

V. Do, we must not fail. 

Bring candles also. 

\_Exit Schoolmaster. Vicar arranges chairs. 
Now, small six years old, 
And why may you be here ? 

Child. I 'm helping father ; 

But, father, why d' you take such pains ? 

V. Sweet soul, 

That 's what I 'm for ! 

C. What, and for nothing else ? 

V. Yes ! I 'm to bring thee up to be a man. 

C. And what am I for ? 

V. There, I 'm busy now. 

C. Am I to bring you up to be a child ? 

V. Perhaps ! Indeed, 1 have heard it said thou art. 

C. Then when may I begin ? 

V. I 'm busy, I say. 

Begin to-morrow an thou canst, my son, 
And mind to do it well. \_Exit Vicar and Child. 

Enter a group of lo a men, and some children. 

Mrs. Thorpe. Fine lot o' lights ! 

Mrs. Jillifer. Should be ! Would folk put on their 
Sunday best 
r the week unless they looked to have it seen ? 
What, you here, neighbour ! 

Mrs. Smith. Ay, you may say that. 

Old Madam called; said she, 'My son would feel 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 45 

So sorry if you did not come,' and slipped 
The penny in my hand, she did ; said I, 
' Ma'am, that 's not it. In short, some say your last 
Was worth the penny and more. I know a man, 
A sober man, who said, and stuck to it. 
Worth a good twopence. But I 'm strange, I 'm shy.' 
' We hope you '11 come for once,' said she. In short, 
I said I would to oblige 'em. 

Mrs. Green. Ah, 't was well. 

Mrs. S. But I feel strange, and music gets i' my throat, 
It always did. And singers be so smart, 
Ladies and folk from other parishes, 
Candles and cheering, greens and flowers and all 
I was not used to such in my young day ; 
We kept ourselves at home. 

3Irs. J. Never say ' used,' 

The most of us have many a thing to do 
We were not used to. If you come to that, 
Why none of us are used to growing old, 
It takes us by surprise, as one may say, 
That work, when we begin 't, and yet 't is work 
That all of us must do. • 

Mrs. G. Nay, nay, not all. 

Mrs. J. I ask your pardon, neighbour ; you be right. 
Not all. 

Mrs. G. And my sweet maid scarce three months dead. 

Mrs. J. I ask your pardon truly. 

Mrs. G. No, my dear. 



46 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Thou 'It never see old days. I cannot stint 
To fret, the maiden was but twelve years old, 
So toward, such a scholar. 

Mrs. S. Ay, when God, 

That knows, comes down to choose, He '11 take the best. 

Mrs. T. But I 'm right glad you came, it pleases 
them. 
My son, that loves his book, ' Mother,' said he, 
' Go to the Reading when you have a chance. 
For there you get a change, and you see life.' 
But Reading or no Reading, I am slow 
To learn. "When parson after comes his rounds, 
' Did it,' to ask with a persuading smile, 
' Open your mind ? ' the woman doth not live 
Feels more a fool. 

Mrs. J. I always tell him ' Yes,' 

For he means well. Ay, and I like the songs. 
Have you heard say what they shall read to-night ? 

Mrs. S. Neighbour, I hear 't is something of the East. 
But what, I ask you, is the East to us. 
And where d' ye think it lies ? 

Mrs. J. The children know, 

At least they say they do ; there 's nothing deep 
Nor nothing strange but they get hold on it. 

Enter Schoolmaster and a dozen children. 

S. Now ladies, ladies, you must please to sit 
More close ; the room fills fast, and all these lads 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 47 

And maidens either have to sing before 
The Reading, or else after. By your leave 
I '11 have them in the front, I want them here. 

[ The women make room. 

Enter ploughmen, villagers, servants, and children. 

And mark me, boys, if I hear cracking o' nuts, 
Or see you flicking acorns and what not 
"While folks from other parishes observe, 
You '11 hear on it when you don't look to. Tom 
And Jemmy and Roger, sing as loud 's ye can, 
Sing as the maidens do, are they afraid ? 
And now I 'm stationed handy facing you. 
Friends all, I '11 drop a word by your good leave. 

Young ploughman. Do, master, do, we like your words 
a vast. 
Though there be nought to back 'em up, ye see. 
As when we were smaller. 

S. Mark me, then, my lads. 

When Lady Laura sang, ' I don't think much,' 
Says her fine coachman, ' of your manners here. 
We drove eleven miles in the dark, it rained, 
And ruts in your cross roads are deep. We 're here, 
My lady sings, they sit all open-mouthed, 
And when she 's done they never give one cheer.' 

Old man. Be folks to clap if they don't like the song ? 

S. Certain, for manners. 



48 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Miter Yic An, wife, various friends with violins and a flute. 
They come to a piano, and one begi^is softly to tune his 
violin, while the Vicar speaks. 

V. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear 
When I stand up to speak, I would not now 
If there were any other found to bid 
You welcome. Welcome, then ; these with me ask 
No better than to please, and in good sooth 
I ever find you willing to be pleased. 
When I demand not more, but when we fain 
Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask 
Your careful heed, I hear that some of you 
Have said, ' What good to know, what good to us ? 
He puts us all to school, and our school days 
Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, 
Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot ; 
The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' 
You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak ? 
I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, 
For ever will the world help that man up 
That is already coming up, and still 
And ever help him down that 's going down. 
Yet say, ' I will take the words out of thy mouth, 
O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. 
Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while 
On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' 
Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 49 

They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. 
Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days 
Had scorned the serpent, and obediently 
Continued God's good children. He Himself 
Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon 
And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet 
Not find it apples of death. 

Vicar's wife (aside). Now, dearest John, 

We 're ready. Lucky too ! you always go 
Above the people's heads. 

Toung farmer stands forward, Vicar presenting him. 



Sparkle of snow and of frost, 

Blythe air and the joy of cold, 
Their grace and good they have lost, 

As print o' her foot by the fold. 
Let me back to yon desert sand, 

Rose-lipped love — from the fold, 
Flower-fair gii-l — from the fold, 

Let me back to the sultry land. 
The world is empty of cheer, 

Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, 
As the night-owl's sob of fear, 

As Memnon moaning at morn. 

VOL. II.— 4 



50 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

For love of thee, my dear, 
I have lived a better man, 
O my Mary Anne, 
My Mary Anne. 



Away, away, and away, 

To an old palm-land of tombs, 
Washed clear of our yesterday 

And where never a snowdrojj blooms. 
Nor wild becks talk as they go 

Of tender hope we had known, 
Nor mosses of memory grow 

All over the wayside stone. 

III. 

Farewell, farewell, and farewell, 

As voice of a lover's sigh 
In the wind let yon willow wave 

* Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' 
The sparkling frost-stars brave 
On thy shrouded bosom lie ; 
Thou art gone apart to dwell. 

But I fain would have said good-bye. 
For love of thee in thy grave 
I have lived a better man, 
O my Mary Anne, 
My Mary Anne. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 51 

Mrs. Thorpe (aside). O hearts! why, what a song! 
To think on it, and he a married man ! 

Mrs. Jillifer {aside). Bless you, that makes for nothing, 
nothing at all. 
They take no heed upon the words. His wife. 
Look you, as pleased as may be, smiles on him. 

Mrs. T. (aside). Neighbours, there 's one thing beats 
me. We 've enough 
O' trouble in the world ; I 've cried my fill 
Many and many a time by my own fire : 
Now why, I '11 ask you, should it comfort me 
And ease my heart when, pitiful and sweet. 
One sings of other souls and how they mourned ? 
A body would have thought that did not know 
Songs must be merry, full of feast and mirth, 
Or else would all folk flee away from them. 

Mrs. S. (aside). 'T is strange, and I too love the sad 

ones best. 
Mrs. T. (aside). Ay, how they clap him ! 'T is as who 
should say. 
Sing ! we were pleased ; sing us another song ; 
As if they did not know he loves to sing. 
Well may he, not an organ pipe they blow 
On Sunday in the church is half so sweet ; 
But he 's a hard man. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Mark me, neighbours all. 

Hard though he be — ay, and the mistress hard — 
If he do sine: 't will be a sorrowful 



52 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Sad tale of sweethearts, that shall make you wish 
Your own time would come over again, although 
Were partings in 't and tears. Hist ! now he sings. 

Young farmer sings again. 

' Come hither, come hither.' The broom was in blossom 
all over yon rise ; 
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with 
songs from the wood. 
* We shall never be younger ! O love, let us forth, for 
the world 'neath our eyes. 
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair 
is her youth and right good.' 

Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never 
yet went into words ; 
Wliile lovesome and moansome thereon spake and 
falter'd the dove to the dove. 
And I came at her calling, ' Inherit, inherit, and sing with 
the birds ; ' 
I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and 
the wife of my love. 

O pure! O pathetic 1 Wild hyacinths drank it, the 
dream light, apace 
Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung 
waiting for messages kind; 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 53 

Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted 
no whit from its place, 
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low 
voice of the wind. 

And tlie child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravish- 
ment almost a pain, 
An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out 
on time, 
Ah short ! must all end in the doing and spend itself 
sweetly in vain, 
And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the 
height of its prime ? 

' We shall never be younger ; ' nay, mock me not, fancy, 
none call from yon tree ; 
They have thrown me the world they went over, went 
up, and, alas ! for my part 
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change ; but 
they change not with me ; 
They will never be older, the child of my love, and the 
wife of my heart. 



Mrs. J. I told you so ! 

Mrs. T. (aside). That did you, neighbour. Ay, 

Partings, said you, and tears : I liked the song. 

Mrs. G. Who be these cominw to the front to sine: ? 



5-1: PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, 
so 't is said, 
And there was much ado to make her sing ; 
She would, and would not ; and he wanted her, 
And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her. 
'T is Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one. 

Mrs. G. {aside). I did not know the maid, so fair she 
looks. 

Mrs. J. {aside). He 's a right jjroper man she has at 
last ; 
Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) 
To court her after work hours, that he doth, 
Not like her other — why, he 'd let his work 
Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love. 
While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. 
Her father sent him to the right-about. 
' If love,' said he, ' won't make a man of you. 
Why, nothing will ! 'T is mainly that love 's for. 
The right sort makes,' said he, ' a lad a man ; 
The wrong sort makes,' said he, ' a man a fool.' 

Vicar presents a young man and a girl. 



She. While he dreams, mine old grand sire, 
And yon red logs glow, 
Honey,, whisper by the fire, 
Whisper, honey low. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 5/3 

He. Honey, high 's yon weary hill, 
Stiff 's yon weary loam ; 
Lacks the work o' my goodwill. 
Fain I 'd take thee home. 
O how much longer, and longer, and longer. 

An' how much longer shall the waiting last? 
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, 
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past. 

She. Honey, bide, the time 's awry, 

Bide awhile, let be. 
He. Take my wage then, lay it by, 

Till 't come back with thee. 
The red money, the white money, 

Both to thee I bring — 
She. Bring ye ought beside, honey ? 
He. Honey, ay, the ring. 

Duet. But how much longer, and longer, and longer, 
O how much longer shall the waiting last ? 

Berries red are grown, April birds are flown, 
Martinmas gone over, and the harvest past. 

\_Applause. 

Mrs. S. (aside). O she 's a pretty maid, and sings so 
small 
And high, 't is like a flute. And she must blush 
Till all her face is roses newly blown. 
How folks do clap. She knows not where to look. 



50 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Tliere now she 's off ; he standing like a man 
To face them. 

Mrs. G. {aside). Makes his bow, and after her ; 
But what 's the good of chipping when they 're gone ? 

Mrs. T. {aside). Why 't is a London fashion as I 'm to hi, 
And means they 'd have 'em back to sing again. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Neighbours, look where her father, 
red as fire, 
Sits pleased and 'shamed, smoothing his Sunday hat ; 
And Parson bustles out. Clap on, clap on. 
Coming ? Not she ! There comes her sweetheart though. 

Vicar presents the young man again. 



I. 

Rain clouds flew beyond the fell, 

No more did thunders lower, 
Patter, patter, on the beck 
Dropt a clearing shower. 
Eddying floats of creamy foam 

Flecked the waters brown, 
As we rode up to cross the ford, 
Rode up from yonder town. 
Waiting on the weather, 
She and I together, 
Waiting on the weather. 
Till the flood went down. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 57 



The sun came out, the wet leaf shone, 

Dripped the wildwood vine. 
Betide me well, betide me woe, 

That hour 's for ever mine. 
With thee Mary, with thee Mary, 

Full oft I pace again, 
Asleep, awake, up yonder glen. 
And hold thy bridle rein. 
Waiting on the weathei-, 
Thou and I together. 
Waiting on the weather. 
Till the Hood shall wane. 



And who, though hope did come to nought, 

Would memory give away ? 
I lighted down, she leaned full low, 

Nor chid that hour's delay. 
With thee Mary, with thee Mary, 

Methought my life to crown. 
But we ride up, but we ride up, 
No more from yonder town. 
Waiting on the weather, 
Thou and I together. 
Waiting on the weather. 
Till the flood go down. 



58 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Mrs. J. {aside). Well, very well ; but what of fiddler 
Sam? 
I ask you, neighbours, if 't be not his turn. 
An honest man, and ever pays his score ; 
Born in the parish, old, blind as a bat, 
And strangers sing before him ; 't is a shame ! 

Mrs. S. (aside). Ay, but his daughter — 

Mrs. J. (aside). Why, the maid 's a maid 

One would not set to guide the chant in church. 
But when she sings to earn her father's bread. 
The mildest mother's son may cry ' Amen.' 

Mrs. S. (aside). They say he plays not always true. 

Mrs. J. (aside). What then ? 

Mrs. T. (aside). Here comes my lady. She's too fat 
by half 
For love songs. O ! the lace upon her gown, 
I wish I had the getting of it up, 
'T would be a pretty penny in my pouch. 

Mrs. J. (aside). Be quiet now for manners. 

Vicar presents a lady, who sings. 



Dark flocks of wildfowl riding out the storm 

Upon a pitching sea. 
Beyond grey rollers vex'd that rear and form, 
When piping winds urge on their destiny, 
To fall back ruined in white continually. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 59 

And I at our trj'sting stone, 
Whereto I came down alone, 
Was fain o' the wind's wild moan. 
O, welcome were wrack and were rain 
And beat of the battling main, 
For the sake of love's sweet pain, 
For the smile in two brown eyes. 
For the love in any wise, 
To bide though the last day dies ; 
For a hand on my wet hair, 
For a kiss e'en yet I wear. 
For — bonny Jock was there. 



Pale precipices while the sun lay low 

Tinct faintly of the rose. 
And mountain islands mirror'd in a flow. 
Forgotten of all winds (their manifold 
Peaks, reared into the glory and the glow), 
Floated in purple and gold. 
And I, o'er the rocks alone, 
Of a shore all silent grown, 
Came down to our trysting stone, 
And sighed when the solemn ray 
Paled in the wake o' the day. 
' Wellaway, wellaway, — 
Comfort is not by the shore. 
Going the gold that it wore. 



GO PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

Purple and rose are no more, 
World and waters are wan, 
And night will be here anon, 
And — bonny Jock 's gone.' 
\_3Ioderate applause, and calls for fiddler Sam. 

Mrs. Jillifer {aside). Now, neighbours, call again and 
be not shamed ; 
Stand by the parish, and the parish folk. 
Them that are poor. I told you ! here he comes. 
Parson looks glum, but brings him and his girl. 

The fiddler Sam plays, and his daughter sings. 

Touch the sweet string. Fly forth, my heart. 

Upon the music like a bird ; 
The silvery notes shall add their part. 

And haply yet thou shalt be heard. 
Touch the sweet string. 

The youngest wren of nine 

Dimpled, dark, and merry. 
Brown her locks, and her two eyne 

Browner than a berry. 

When I was not in love 

Maidens met I many ; 
Under sun now walks but one, 

Nor others mark I any. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. CI 

Twin lambs, a mild-eyed ewe, 

That would her follow bleating, 
A heifer white as snow 

I '11 give to my sweet sweeting. 

Touch the sweet string. If yet too young, 

O love of loves, for this my song, 
I '11 pray thee count it all unsung, 
And wait thy leisure, wait it long. 
Touch the sweet string. 

[Much ajjplause. 

Vicar. You hear them, Sam. You needs must play 
again, 
Your neighbours ask it. 

Fiddler. Thank ye, neiglibours all, 

I have my feelings though I be but poor ; 
I 've tanged the fiddle here this forty year. 
And I should know the trick on 't. 

The Jlddler plays, and his daughter sings. 

For Exmoor — 

For Exmoor, where the red deer run, my weary heart 

doth cry. 
She that will a rover wed, far her foot shall hie. 
Narrow, narrow, shows the street, dull the narrow sky. 
{Buy my cherries, whiteheart cherries, good my masters, 

buy.) 



62 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

For Exmoor — 

O he left me, left alone, aye to think and sigh,- 

' Lambs feed down you sunny coombe, hind and yearling 

shy, 
Mid the shrouding vapours walk now like ghosts on high.' 
{Buy my cherries, blackheart cherries, lads and lassies, buy.) 

For Exmoor — 

Dear my dear, why did ye so ? Evil days have I, 
Mark no more the antler'd stag, hear the curlew cry. 
Milking at my father's gate while he leans anigh. 
{Buy my cherries, whiteheart, blachheart, golden girls, 
buy.) 

Mrs. T. (aside). I've known him play that Exmoor 
song afore. 
Ah me ! and I 'm from Exmoor. I could wish 
To hear 't no more. 

Mrs. S. {aside). Neighbours, 't is mighty hot. 
Ay, now they throw the window up, that 's well, 
A body could not breathe. 

\_The fiddler and his daughter go away. 
Mrs. Jillifer {aside). They '11 hear no parson's preach- 
ing, no not they ! 
But innocenter songs, I do allow, 
They could not well have sung than these to-night. 
That man knows just so well as if he saw 
They were not welcome. 



PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 63 

The Vicar stands up, on the point of beginning to rrad, 
when the tuning and twang of the fiddle is heard close 
outside the open window, and the daughter sings in a 
clear cheerful voice. A little tittering is heard in the 
room, and the Vicar pauses 



O my heart ! what a coil is here ! 
Laurie, why will ye hold me dear ? 
Laurie, Laurie, lad, make not wail, 
"With a wiser lass ye '11 sure prevail, 
For ye sing like a woodland nightingale. 
And there 's no sense in it under the sun ; 
For of three that woo I can take hut one. 
So what 's to be done — what 's to be done ? 

And 
There 's no sense in it under the sun. 



Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts 

Come home you '11 choose among kinder hearts. 

Forget, forget, you 're too good to hold 

A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold. 

And fade like an August marigold ; 

For of three that woo I can take but one. 

And what 's to be done — what 's to be done ? 



64 PRELUDES TO A PENNY READING. 

There 's no sense in it under the sun, 

And 
Of three that woo I can take but one. 



Geordie, Geordie, I count you true, 
Though language sweet I have none for 3'ou. 
Nay, but take me home to the churning mill 
When cherry boughs white on yon mounting hill 
Hang over the tufts o' the daffodil. 
For what 's to be done — what 's to be done ? 
Of three that woo I must e'en take one, 
Or there 's no sense in it under the sun, 

And 
What 's to be done — what 's to be done ? 

V. (aside). What 's to be done, indeed ! 

Wife (aside) . Done ! nothing, love. 

Either the thing has done itself, or they 
Must undo. Did they call for fiddler Sam ? 
Well, now they have him. 

\_More tuning heard outside. 

Ifrs. J. (aside). Live and let live 's my motto. 

3frs. T. So 't is mine. 

Who 's Sam, that he must fly in Parson's face "i 
He 's had his turn. He never gave these lights, 
Cut his best flowers — 



KISMET. 65 

Mrs. S. (aside). He takes no pride in us. 

Speak up, good neighbour, get the window shut. 

Mrs. J. {rising). I ask your pardon truly, that I do — 
La ! but the window — there 's a parlous drauglit ; 
The window punishes rheumatic folk — 
We 'd have it shut, sir. 

Others. Truly, that we would. 

V. Certainly, certainly, my friends, you shall. 
\_The window is shut, and the Reading begins amid 
marked attention. 



KISMET. 

TNTO the rock the road is cut full deep, 
-'- At its low ledges village children play, 
From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep, 
And silvery birches sway. 

The boldest climbers have its face forsworn. 

Sheer as a wall it doth all daring flout ; 
But benchlike at its base, and weather-worn, 
A narrow ledge leans out. 

There do they set forth feasts in dishes rude 

Wrought of the rush — wild strawberries on the bed 
Left into August, apples brown and crude. 
Cress from the cold well-head. 

VOL. II. — 5 



bb KISMET. 

Shy gamesome girls, small daring imps of boys, 

But gentle, almost silent at their play — 
Their fledgling daws, for food, make far more noise 
Ranged on the ledge than they. 

The children and the purple martins share 

(Loveliest of birds) possession of the place ; 
They veer and dart cream-breasted round the fair 
Faces with wild sweet grace. 

Fresh haply from Palmyra desolate, 

Palmyra pale in light and storyless — 
From perching in old Tadmor mate by mate 
In the waste wilderness. 

These know the world ; what do the children know ? 
They know the woods, their groaning noises weird, 
They climb in trees that overhang the slow 
Deep mill-stream, loved and feared. 

Where shaken water-wheels go creak and clack. 

List while a lorn thrush calls and almost speaks ; 
See willow-wrens with elderberries black 
Staining their slender beaks. 

They know full well how squirrels sjDend the day ; 

They peeped when field-mice stole and stored the seed. 
And voles along their under-water way 
Donned collars of bright beads. 



KISMET. 67 

Still from the deep-cut road tbey love to mark 
Where set, as in a frame, the nearer shapes 
Rise out of hill and wood ; then long downs dark 
As purple bloom on grapes. 

But farms whereon the tall wheat musters goia, 

High barley whitening, creases in bare hills, 
Reed-feathered, castle-like brown churches old. 
Nor churning water-mills, 

Shall make ought seem so fair as that beyond — 

Beyond the down, which draws their fealty ; 
Blow high, blow low, some hearts do aye respond 
The wind is from the sea. 

Above the steep-cut steps as they did grow. 

The children's cottage homes embowered are seen ; 
Were this a world unfallen, they scarce could show 
More beauteous red and green. 

Milk-white and vestal-chaste the hollyhock 

Grows tall, clove, sweetgale nightly shed forth spice, 
Long woodbines leaning over scent the rock 
With airs of Paradise. 

Here comforted of pilot stars they lie 

In charmed dreams, but not of wold nor lea. 
Behold a ship ! her wide yards score the sky ; 
She sails a steel-blue sea. 



68 KISMET. 

As turns the great amassment of the tide, 

Drawn of the silver desi)ot to lier throne, 
So turn the destined souls, so far and wide 
The strong deep claims its own. 

Still the old tale ; these dreaming islanders. 

Each with hot Sunderhunds a somewhat 
That calls, the grandsire's blood within them stirs 
Dutch Java guards his bones. 

And these were orphan'd when a leak was sprung 

Far out from land when all the air was balm ; 
The shipmen saw their faces as they hung. 
And sank in the glassy calm. 

These, in an orange-sloop their father plied, 

Deck-laden deep she sailed from Cadiz town, 
A black squall rose, she turned upon her side. 
Drank water and went down. 

They too shall sail. High names of alien lands 

Are in the dream, great names their fathers knew ; 
Madras, the white surf rearing on her sands. 
E'en they shall breast it too. 

See threads of scarlet down fell Roa creep. 

When moaning winds rend back her vapourous veil 
"Wild Orinoco wedge-like split the deep, 
Raging forth passion-pale ; 



DORA. 69 

Or a blue berg at sunrise glittering tall, 

Great as a town adrift come shining on 
With sharp spires, gemlike as the mystical 
Clear city of Saint John. 

Still the old tale ; but they are children yet ; 

O let their mothers have them while they may ! 
Soon it shall work, the strange mysterious fret 
That mars both toil and play. 

The sea will claim its own ; and some shall mourn ; 

They also, they, but yet will surely go ; 
So surely as the planet to its bourne, 
The chamois to his snow. 

' Father, dear father, bid us now God-speed ; 
We cannot choose but sail, it thus befell.' 
' Mother, dear mother — ' ' Nay, 't is all decreed. 
Dear hearts, farewell, farewell ! ' 



DORA. 

A WAXING moon that, crescent yet, 
•^■^ In all its silver beauty set. 
And rose no more in the lonesome night 
To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. 



70 DORA. 

Then was it dark ; on wold and lea, 

In home, in heart, the hours were drear. 

Father and mother could no light see, 

And the hearts trembled and there was fear. 

— So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, 

Tinware that glory it did shroud, 

Feared when they entered into the cloud. 

She was the best part of love's fair 
Adornment, life's God-given care. 
As if He bade them guard His own. 
Who should be soon anear His throne. 
Dutiful, happy, and who say 
When childhood smiles itself away, 
' More fair than morn shall prove the day.' 
Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest. 
How shall be bettering of your best ! 
That promise heaven alone shall view, 
That hope can ne'er with us come true, 
That prophecy life hath not skill, 
No, nor time leave that it fulfil. 

There is but heaven, for childhood never 
Can yield the all it meant, for ever. 
Or is there earth, must wane to less 
What dawned so close by perfectness. 

How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, 
How beautiful, dear child, was thine — 



DORA. 71 

Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. 
Winner, who had not greatly striven, 
Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, 
Carking care thy beauty spoil, 
So early blest, so young forgiven. 

Among the meadows fresh to view. 
And in the woodland ways she grew, 
On either side a hand to hold, 
Nor the world's worst of evil knew, 
Nor rued its miseries manifold, 
Nor made discovery of its cold. 
What more, like one with morn content, 
Or of the morrow diffident, 
Unconscious, beautiful she stood. 
Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. 
Then, with the last steps childhood trod, 
Took up her fifteen years to God. 

Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last. 
All life is better for thy past. 
Farewell till love with sorrow meet, 
To learn that tears are obsolete. 



72 SPERANZA. 



SPERANZA. 

Her younger sister, that Speranza higfit. 

I .^NGLAND puts on her purple, and pale, pale 
-*— ' With too much light, the primrose doth but wait 
To meet the hyacinth ; then bower and dale 

Shall lose her and each fairy woodland mate. 
April forgets them, for their utmost sum 
Of gift was silent, and the birds are come. 

The world is stirring, many voices blend, 
The English are at work in field and way ; 

All the good finches on their wives attend. 
And emmets their new towns lay out in clay ; 

Only the cuckoo-bird only doth say 

Her beautiful name, and float at large all day. 

Everywhere ring sweet clamours, chirrupping, 
Chirping, that comes before the grasshopper ; 

The wide woods, flurried with the pulse of spring. 
Shake out their wrinkled buds with tremor and stir ; 

Small noises, little cries, tlie ear receives 

Light as a rustling foot on last year's leaves. 



SPERANZA. 73 

All in deep dew the satisfied deep grass 

Looking straight upward stars itself with white, 

Like ships in heaven full-sailed do long clouds pass 
Slowly o'er this great peace, and wide sweet light. 

While through moist meads draws down yon rushy mere 

Influent waters, sobbing, shining, clear. 

Almost is rapture poignant; somewhat ails 

The heart and mocks the morning ; somewhat sighs, 

And those sweet foreigners, the nightingales. 

Made restless with their love, pay down its price, 

Even the pain ; then all the story unfold 

Over and over again — yet 't is not told. 

The mystery of the world whose name is life 

(One of the names of God) all-conquering wends 

And works for aye with rest and cold at strife. 
Its pedigree goes up to Him and ends. 

For it the lucent heavens are clear o'erhead, 

And all the meads are made its natal bed. 



Dear is the light, and eye-sight ever sweet. 

What see they all fair lower things that nurse, 

No wonder, and no doubt ? Truly their meat, 

Their kind, their field, their foes ; man's eyes are more ; 
Sight is man's having of the universe, 

His pass to the majestical far shore. 



74 SPERANZA. 

But it is not enough, ah ! not enough 

To look upon it and be held away, 
And to be sure that, while we tread the rough, 

Remote, dull paths of this dull world, no ray- 
Shall pierce to us from the inner soul of things, 
Nor voice thrill out from its deep mastei'-strings. 

' To show the skies, and tether to the sod ! 

A daunting gift ! ' we mourn in our long strife, 
And God is more than all our thought of God ; 

E'en life itself more than our thought of life, 
And that is all we know — and it is noon, 
Our little day will soon be done — how soon! 

O let us to ourselves be dutiful : 

We are not satisfied, we have wanted all, 

Not alone beauty, but that Beautiful ; 
A lifted veil, an answering mystical. 

Ever men plead, and plain, admire, implore, 

' Why gavest Thou so much — and yet — not more ? 

We are but let to look, and Hope is weighed.' 
Yet, say the Indian words of sweet renown, 

' The doomed tree withholdeth not her shade 
Fi'om him that bears the axe to cut her down ; ' 

Is hope cut down, dead, doomed, all is vain : 

The third day dawns, she too has risen again 



SPERANZA. 75 

(For Faith is ours by gift, but Hope by right), 
And walks among us whispering as of yore : 

' Glory and grace are thrown thee with the light ; 
Search, if not yet thou touch the mystic shore ; 

Immanent beauty and good are nigh at hand. 

For infants laugh and snowdrops bloom in the land. 

Thou shall have more anon.' What more ? in sooth, 

The mother of to-morrow is to-day, 
And brings forth after her kind. There is no ruth 

On the heart's sigh, that ' more ' is hidden away, 
And man's to-morrow yet shall pine and yearn ; 
He shall surmise, and he sliall not discern, 

But list the lark, and want the rapturous cries 
And passioning of morning stars that sing 

Together ; mark the meadow-orchis rise 

And think it freckled after an angel's wing ; 

Absent desire his land, and feel this, one 

With the great drawing of the central sun. 

But not to all such dower, for there be eyes 
Are colour-blind, and souls are spirit-blind. 

Those never saw the blush in sunset skies. 

Nor the others caught a sense not made of words 
As if were spirits about, that sailed the wind 

And sank and settled on the boughs like birds. 



3 SPERANZA. 

Yet such for aye divided from us are 

As other galaxies that seem no more 
Than a little golden millet-seed afar. 

Divided ; swarming down some fiat lee shore, 
Then risen, while all the air that takes no word 
Tingles, and trembles as with cries not heard. 

For they can come no nearer. There is found 

No meeting point. We have pierced the lodging-place 

Of stars that cluster'd with their peers lie bound, 
Embedded thick, sunk in the seas of space, 

Fortunate orbs that know not night, for all 

Are suns ; — but we have never heard tli;;t call, 

Nor learned it in our world, our citadel 

With outworks of a Power about it traced ; 

Nor why we needs must sin who would do Well, 
Nor why the want of love, nor why its waste, 

Nor how by dying of One should all be sped. 

Nor where, Lord, thou hast laid up our dead. 

But Hope is ours by right, and Faith by gift. 

Though Time be as a moon upon the wane. 
Who walk with Faith far up the azure lift 

Oft hear her talk of lights to wax again. 
• If man be lost,' she cries, ' in this vast sea 
Of being, — lost — he would be lost with Thee 



SPERANZA. 77 

Who for his sake once, as he hears, lost all. 

For Thou wilt find him at the end of the days : 
Then shall the flocking souls that thicker fall 

Than snowflakes on the everlasting ways 
Be counted, gathered, claimed. — AVill it be long ? 
Earth has begun already her swan-song. 

Who, even that might, would dwell for ever pent 
In this fair frame that doth the spirit inhearse, 

Nor at the last grow weary and content, 
Die, and break forth into the universe, 

And yet man would not all things — all — were new.' 

Then saith the other, that one robed in blue : 

' What if with subtle change God touch their eyes 
When he awakes them, — not far off, but here 

In a new earth, this : not in any wise 

Strange, but more homely sweet, more heavenly dear. 

Or if He roll away, as clouds disperse 

Somewhat, and lo, that other universe. 

O how 't were sweet new waked in .some good hour, 
Long time to sit on a hillside green and high 

There like a honeybee domed in a flower 
To feed unneath the azure bell o' the sky, 

Feed in the midmost home and fount of light 

Sown thick with stars at noonday as by night 



78 SPERANZA. 

To watch the flying faultless ones wheel down, 
Alight, and run along some ridged peak, 

Their feet adust from orbs of old renown, 

Procyon or Mazzaroth, haply ; — when they speak 

Other-world errands wondrous, all discern 

That would be strange, there would be much to learn. 

Ay, and it would be sweet to share unblamed 

Love's shining truths that tell themselves in tears, 

Or to confess and be no more ashamed 

The wrongs that none can right through earthly years; 

And seldom laugh, because the tenderness 

Calm, perfect, would be more than joy — would bless. 

I tell you it were sweet to have enough. 

And be enough. Among the souls forgiven 

In presence of all worlds, without rebuff 

To move, and feel the excellent safety leaven 

With peace that awe must loss and the grave survive — 

But i^alpitating moons that are alive 

Nor shining fogs swept up together afar, 

Vast as a thought of God, in the firmament ; 

No, and to dart as light from star to star 

Would not long time man's yearning soul content : 

Albeit were no more ships and no more sea, 

He would desire his new earth presently. 



SPERANZA. 79 

Leisure to learn it. Peoples would be here; 

They would come on in troops, and take at will 
The forms, the faces they did use to \vear 

With life's first splendours — raiment rich with skill 
Of broidery, carved adornments, crowns of gold ; 
Still would be sweet to them the life of old. 

Then might be gatherings under golden shade. 
Where dust of water drifts from some sheer fall, 

Cooling day's ardour. There be utterance made 
Of comforted love, dear freedom after thrall, 

Large longings of the Seer, through earthly years 

An everlasting burden, but no tears. 

Egypt's adopted child might tell of lore 

They taught him underground in shrines all dim, 

And of the live tame reptile gods that wore 
Gold anklets on their feet. And after him, 

With fairest eyes ere met of mortal ken, 

Glorious, forgiven, might speak the mother of men. 

Talk of Iier apples gather'd by the marge 

Of lapsing Gihon. ' Thus one spoke, I stood, 

I ate.' Or next the nuiriner-sanit enlarge 
Right quaintly on his ark of gopher wood 

To wandering men through high grass meads that ran 

Or sailed the sea Mediterranean. 



80 SPERANZA. 

It might be common — earth afforested 
Newly, to follow her great ones to the sun, 

When from transcendent aisles of gloom they sped 
Some work august (there would be work) now done. 

And list, and their high matters strive to scan 

The seekers after God, and lovers of man, 

Sitting together in amity on a hill. 

The Saint of Visions from Greek Patmos come — 
Aurelius, lordly, calm-eyed, as of will 

Austere, yet having rue on lost, lost Rome, 
And with them One who drank a fateful bowl. 
And to the unknown God trusted his soul. 

The mitred Cranmer pitied even there 

(But could it be ?) for that false hand which signed 
O, all pathetic — no. But it might bear 

To soothe him marks of fire — and gladsome kind 
The man, as all of joy him well beseemed 
Who ' lighted on a certain place and dreamed.' 

And fair with the meaning of life their divine brows, 
The daughters of well-doing famed in song ; 

But what ! could old-world love for child, for spouse, 
For land, content through lapsing eons long ? 

Oh for a watchword strong to bridge the deep 

And satisfy of fulness after sleep. 



SPERANZA. 81 

What know we ? Whispers fall, ^And the last first, 
And the first last.' The child before the king? 

The slave before that man a master erst ? 

The woman before her lord ? Shall glory fling 

The rolls aside — time raze out triumphs past ? 

They sigh, ' And the last first, and the first last.' 

Answers that other, ' Lady, sister, friend, 
It is enough, for I have worshipped Life ; 

With Him that is the Life man's life shall blend, 
E'en now the sacred heavens do help his strife. 

There do they knead his bread and mix his cup. 

And all the stars have leave to bear him ujd. 

Yet must he sink and fall away to a sleep, 
As did his Loi'd. This Life his worshipped 

Religion, Life. The silence may be deep. 
Life listening, watching, waiting by His dead, 

Till at the end of days they wake full fain 

Because their King, the Life, doth love and reign. 

I know the King shall come to that new earth, 
And His feet stand again as once they stood. 

In His man's eyes will shine Time's end and worth 
The chiefest beauty and the chiefest good. 

And all shall have the all and in it bide, 

And every soul of man be satisfied. 

VOL. II. — 6 



82 THE BEGINNING. 



THE BEGINNING. 

' 'THHEY tell strange things of the primeval earth, 
•*- But things that be are never strange to those 
Among them. And we know what it was like, 
Many are sure they walked in it ; the proof 
This, the all gracious, all admired whole 
Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one. 
Nor yet divided more than that old earth 
Among the tribes. Self was not fully come — 
Self was asleep, embedded in the whole. 

I too dwelt once in a primeval world. 
Such as they tell of, all things wonderful ; 
Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall 
Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead 
And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not 
Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words. 
This kingdom of heaven having entered through 
Being a little child. 

Such as can see. 
Why should they doubt ? The cliildhood of a race. 
The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt 
Nor fear. Where all is super-natural 



THE BEGINNING. 83 

Tlie guileless heart cloth feed on it, no more 
Afraid than angels are of heaven. 

Who saith 
Another life, the next one shall not have 
Another childhood growing gently thus, 
Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take 
The rich long awful measure of its peace, 
Endure the presence sublime. 

I saw 
Once in that earth primeval, once — a face, 
A little face that yet I dream upon.' 

' Of this world was it ? ' 

' Not of this world — no, 
In the beginning — for methinks it was 
In the beginning but an if you ask 
IIow long ago, time was not then, nor date 
For marking. It was always long ago. 
E'en from the first recalling of it, long 
And long ago. 

And I could walk, and went, 
Led by the hand through a long mead at morn. 
Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. 
It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven. 
Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun 
Gave every blade a bright and a dark side, 
Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped 
To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. 



84 THE BEGINNING. 

The wide oaks in their early green stood still 
And took delight in it. Brown specks that made 
Very sweet noises quivered in the blue ; 
Then they came down and ran along the brink 
Of a long pool, and they were birds. 

The pool 
Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint, 
A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers 
And flags blue-green was lying below. This all 
Was sight it condescended not to words 
Till memory kissed the charmed dream. 

The mead 
Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair 
With dropping roses fell away to it, 
A strange sweet place ; upon its further side 
Some people gently walking took their way 
Up to a wood beyond ; and also bells 
Sang, floated in the air, hummed — what you will.' 

' Then it was Sunday ? ' 

' Sunday was not yet ; 
It was a holiday, for all the days 
Were holy. It was not our day of rest 
(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest, 
For she was never weary). 

It was sweet. 
Full of dear leisure and perennial peace, 
As very old days when life went easily. 



THE BEGINNING. 85 

Before mankind hud lost the wise, the good 
Habit of being happy. 

For the pool 
A beauteous place it was as might be seen, 
That led one down to other meads, and had 
Clouds and another sky, I thought to go 
Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope. 



Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot 

Staying to talk with one who met her there. 

Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans 

Floated them on above the flowering flags. 

We moved a little onward, paused again. 

And here there was a break in these, and here 

There came the vision ; for I stooped to gaze 

So far as my small height would let me — gaze 

Into that pool to see the fishes dart, 

And in a moment from her under hills 

Came forth a little child who lived down there, 

Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk, 

But looked and loved each other. I a hand 

Held out to her, so she to me, but ah, 

She would not come. Her home, her little bed, 

Was doubtless under that soft shining thing 

The water, and she wanted not to run 

Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand 

In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds. 



86 THE BEGINNING. 

Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied, 

Took in the blue of one another's eyes, 

Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent. 

But when we fain had kissed — ! the end came. 

For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms. 

She parting with her lover I was borne 

Far from that little child. 

And no one knew 
She lived down there, but only I ; and none 
Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left 
Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave 
Their wool upon a thorn.' 

' And was she seen 
Never again, nor known for what she was ? ' 

' Never again, for we did leave anon 
The pasture and the pool. I know not where 
They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know 
From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight ; 
On certain days I dream about her still.' 



IN THE NURSERY. 87 



IN THE NURSERY. 

' TT THERE do you go, Bob, when you 're fast asleep? ' 

V V i Wliere ? O well, once I went into a deep 
Mine, father told of, and a cross man said 
He 'd make me help to dig, and eat black bread. 
I saw the Queen once, in her room, quite near. 
She said, " You rude boy. Bob, how came you here ? " ' 

' Was it like mother's boudoir ? ' 

' Grander far. 
Gold chairs and things — all over diamonds — Ah ! ' 

' You 're sure it was the Queen ? ' 

' Of course, a crown 
"Was on her, and a spangly purple gown.' 

' I went to heaven last night.' 

' Lily, no, 
How could you ? ' 

' Yes I did, they told me so, 
And my best doll, my favourite, with the blue 
Frock, Jasmine, I took her to heaven too.' 



B IN THE NURSERY. 

' What was it like ? ' 

' A kind of — I can't tell — • 
A sort of orchard place in a long dell, 
With trees all over flowers. And there were birds 
Who could do talking, say soft pretty words ; 
They let me stroke them, and I showed it all 
To Jasmine. And I heard a blue dove call, 
" Child, this is heaven." I was not frightened when 
It spoke, I said " Wliere are the angels then ? " ' 

'Well.' 

' So it said, " Look up and you shall see." 
There were two angels sitting in the tree, 
As tall as mother ; they had long gold hair. 
They let drop down the fruit they gather'd there 
And little angels came for it — so sweet. 
Here they were beggar children in the street, 
And the dove said they had the prettiest things, 
And wore their best frocks every day.' 

' And wings, 
Had they no wings ? ' 

' O yes, and lined with white 
Like swallow wings, so soft — so very light 
Fluttering about.' 

' Well.' 

' Well, I did not sta}-, 
So that was all.' 

' They made you go away ? ' 



THE BELL-BIRD. 89 

* I did not go — but — I was gone.' 

' I know.' 
' But it 's a pity, Bob, we never go 
Together.' 

' Yes, and have no dreams to tell, 
But the next day both know it all quite well.' 

' And, Bob, if I could dream you came with me 
You would be there perhaps.' 

' Perhaps — we '11 see.' 



THE AUSTRALIAN BELL-BIRD. 
'^OLL — 

-'- Toll.' ' The bell-bird sounding far away, 

Hid in a myall grove.' He raised his head. 
The bush glowed scarlet in descending daj-, 

A masterless wild country — and he said. 
My father (' Toll.') ' Full oft by her to stray, 

As if a spirit called, have I been led ; 
Oft seems she as an echo in my soul 
(' Toll.') from my native towers by Avon (' Toll '). 

('Toll.') Oft as in a dream I see full fain 
The bell-tower beautiful that I love well, 
A seemly cluster with her churches twain. 



90 THE BELL-BIRD. 

I hear adown the river faint and swell 
And lift upon the air that sound again, 

It is, it is — how sweet no tongue can tell. 
For all the world-wide breadth of shining foam, 
The bells of Evesham chiming " Home, sweet home. 

The mind hath mastery thus — it can defy 

The sense, and make all one as it did hear — 

Nay, I mean more ; the wraiths of sound gone by 
Rise ; they are present 'neath this dome all clear. 

One, sounds the bird — a pause — then doth supply 
Some ghost of chimes the void expectant ear ; 

Do they ring bells in heaven ? The learnedest soul 

Shall not resolve me such a question. (' Toll.') 

('Toll.') Say I am a boy, and fishing stand 
By Avon (' Toll.') on line and rod intent, 

How glitters deep in dew the meadow land — 
What, dost thou flit, thy ministry all spent. 

Not many days we hail such visits bland, 
Why steal so soon the rare enravishment ? 

Ay gone ! the soft decejDtive echoes roll 

Away, and faint into remoteness.' (' Toll.') 

While thus he spoke the doom'd sun touched his bed 

In scarlet, all the palpitating air 
Still loyal waited on. He dipped his head. 

Then all was over, and the dark was there : 



THE BELL-BIRD. 91 

And northward, lo ! a star, one likewise red 

But lurid, starts from out lier day-long lair, 
Her fellows trail behind ; she bears her part, 
The balefullest star that shines, the Scorpion's heart 

Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear, 

Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky- 
In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. 

The little children of Infinity, 
They next look down as to report them ' Here,' 

From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high, 
Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore, 
Still to rush on till time shall be no more. 

' Loved vale of Evesham, 't is a long farewell. 
Not laden orchards nor their April snow 

These eyes shall light upon again ; the swell 
And whisper of thy storied river know, 

Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell 
In a good cause hundreds of years ago ; 

So fall'n, elect to live till life's ally, 

The river of recorded deeds, runs dry. 

This land is very well, this air,' saith he, 

' Is very well, but we want echoes here. 
Man's past to feed the air and move the sea ; 

Ages of toil make English furrows dear. 



92 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Eiu'iched by blood shed for his liberty, 

Sacred by love's first sigh and life's last fear, 
We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn 
Poor birds of passage, but may not return, 

Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. 

There sing more poets in that one small isle 
Than all isles else can show — of such you are ; 

Remote things come to you unsought erewhile. 
Near things a long way round as by a star. 

Wild dreams ! ' He laughed, ' A sage right infantile 
With sacred fear behold life's waste deplored, 
Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord. 

Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good. 
Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race ; 

And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood 
Did smile it to her feet : a riglit small place. 

Call her a mother, high such motherhood. 
Home in her name and duty in her face ; 

Gall her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds, 

And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds. 

Ay, all the more go you. But some have cried 

" The ship is breaking up ; " they watch amazed 
While urged toward the rocks by some that guide ; 



THE BELL-BIRD. 93 

Tempteth her doom ; yet this have none denied 

Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed, 
But never was it known beneath the sun, 
They of such wreckage built a goodlier one. 

God help old England an't be thus, nor less 

God help the world.' Therewith mj^ mother sjiake, 

' Perhaps He will ! by time, by faithlessness, 
By the world's want long in the dark awake, 

I think He must be almost due : the stress 
Of the great tide of life, sharp misery's ache, 

In a recluseness of the soul we rue 

Far oflf, but yet — He must be almost due. 

God manifest again, the coming King.' 
Then said my father, ' I beheld erewhile. 

Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising, 
The giant doll in ruins by the Nile, 

With hints of red that yet to it doth cling, 

Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile, 

A body of evil with its angel fled, 

Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped. 

The gods die not, long shrouded on their biers. 
Somewhere they live, and live in memory yet ; 

Were not the Israelites for forty years 
Hid from them in the desert to forget — 



•94 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Did they forget ? no more than their lost feres 

Sons of to-day with faces southward set, 
Who dig for buried lore long ages fled, 
And sift for it the saud and search the dead. 

Brown Egyjot gave not one great poet birth, 
But man was better than his gods, with lay 

He soothed them restless, and they zoned the earth, 
And crossed the sea ; there drank immortal praise ; 

Then from his own best self with glory and worth 
And beauty dowered he them for dateless days. 

Ever " their sound goes forth " from shore to shore. 

When was there known an hour that they lived more. 

Because they are beloved and not believed, 

Admired not feared, tliey draw men to their feet ; 

All once, rejected, nothing now, received 

Where once found wanting, now the most complete ; 

Man knows to-day, though manhood stand achieved. 
His cradle-rockers made a rustling sweet ; 

That king reigns longest which did lose his crown, 

Stars that by poets shine are stars gone down. 

Still drawn obedient to an unseen hand. 

From purer heights comes down the yearning west. 

Like to that eagle in the morning land, 
That swooping on her predatory quest, 



THE BELL-BIRD. 95 

Did from the altar steal a smouldering brand, 

The which she bearing home it burned her nest, 
And her wide pinions of their plumes bereaveu, 
Spoiled for glad spiring up the steeps of heaven. 

I say the gods live, and that reign abhor, 

And will the nations it should dawn ? AVill they 

Who ride upon the perilous edge of war ? 
Will such as delve for gold in this our day ? 

Neither the world will, nor the age will, nor 

The soul — and what, it cometh now ? Nay, na}', 

The weighty sphere, unready for release, 

Rolls far in front of that o'ermastering peace. 

Wait and desire it ; life waits not, free there 

To good, to evil, thy right perilous — 
All shall be fair, and yet it is not fair. 

I thank my God He takes th' advantage thus ; 
He doth not greatly hide, but still declare 

Which side He is on and which He loves, to us, 
While life impartial aid to both doth lend, 
And heed not which the choice nor what the end. 

Among the few upright, O to be found, 
And ever search the nobler path, my son, 

Nor say 't is sweet to find me common ground 

Too high, too good, shall leave the hours alone — 



96 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Nay, tliougli but one stood on the height renowned, 

Deny not hope or will, to be that one. 
Is it the many fall'n shall lift the land, 
The race, the age ! — Nay, 't is the few that stand.' 

While in the lamplight hearkening I sat mute, 

Methought ' How soon this fire must needs burn out ' 

Among the passion flowers and passion fruit 
That from the wide verandah hung, misdoubt 

Was mine. ' And wherefore made I thus long suit 
To leave this old white head ? His words devout, 

His blessing not to hear who loves me so — 

He that is old, right old — I will not go.' 

But ere the dawn their counsels wrought with me, 
And I went forth ; alas that I so went 

Under the great gum-forest canopy. 
The light on every silken filament 

Of every flower, a quivering ecstasy 

Of perfect paleness made it ; sunbeams sent 

Up to the leaves with sword-like flash endued 

Each turn of that grey drooping multitude. 

I sought to look as in the light of one 

Returned. ' Will this be strange to me that day ? 
Flocks of green parrots clamorous in the sun 

Tearing out milky maize — stiff cacti grey 



THE BELL-BIRD. 97 

As old men's beards — here stony ranges lone, 

Their dust of mighty flocks upon their way 
To water, cloudlike on the bush afar, 
Like smoke that hangs where old-world cities are. 

Is it not made man's last endowment here 

To find a beauty in the wilderness ; 
Feel the lorn moor above his pastures dear, 

Mountains that may not house and will not bless 
To draw him even to death ? He must insphere 

His sjiirit in the open, so doth less 
Desire his feres, and more that unvex'd v/old 
And fine afforested hills, his dower of old. 

But shall we lose again that new-found sense 
Which sees the earth less for our tillage fair ? 

Oh, let her speak with her best eloquence 
To me, but not her first and her right rare 

Can equal what I may not take from hence. 
The gems are left : it is not otherwhere 

The wild Nejjcan cleaves her matchless way, 

Nor Sydney harbour shall outdo the day. 

Adding to day this — that she lighteth it.' 

But I beheld again, and as must be 
With a world-record by a spirit writ, 

It was more beautiful than memory, 

VOL. II. — 7 



8 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Than hope was more complete. 

Tall brigs did sit 
Each iu her berth the pure flood placidly, 
Their topsails drooping 'neath the vast blue dome 
Listless, as waiting to be sheeted home. 

And the great ships with pulse-like throbbing clear, 

Majestical of mien did take their way 
Like living creatures from some grander sphere, 

That having boarded ours thought good to stay, 
Albeit enslaved. They most divided here 

From God's great art and all his works m clay, 
In that their beauty lacks, though fair it shows 
That divine waste of beauty only lie bestows. 

The day was young, scarce out the harbour lights 
That morn I sailed : low sun-rays tremulous 

On golden loops sped outward. Yachts in flights 
Flutter'd the water air-like clear, while thus 

It crept for shade among brown rocky bights 
With cassia crowned and palms diaphanous, 

And boughs ripe fruitage dropping fitfully. 

That on the shining ebb went out to sea. 

' Home,' saitli the man self-banished, ' my son 
Shall now go home.' Therewith he sendeth him 

Abroad, and knows it not, but thence is won, 

Rescued, the son's true home. His mind doth limn 



THE BELL-BIRD. 99 

Beautiful pictures of it, there is none 

So dear, a new tliought sliines erewliile but dim, 
' That was my home, a land past all compare. 
Life, and the poetry of life, are there.' 

But no such thought drew near to me that day ; 

All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old, 
All the young souls bow down to own its sway. 

Enamoured of strange richness manifold ; 
Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye. 

Besieging it for its own life to hold, 
E'en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid, 
Stormed with an host th' inviolate pyramid. 

And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. 

So I, so all. The treasure sought not found. 
But some divine tears found to superadd 

Themselves to a long story. The great round 
Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad. 

Found to be only as to-day, close bound 
With us, we hope some good tlnng yet to know, 
But God is not in haste, wliile the lambs grow 

The Shepherd leadeth softly. It is great 
The journey, and the flock forgets at last 

(Earth ever working to obliterate 

The landmarks) when it halted, wliere it jDassed ; 



100 THE BELL-BIRD. 

And words confuse, and time doth ruinate, 

And memory fail to hold a theme so vast ; 
There is request for light, but the flock feeds, 
And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads. 

' Home,' quoth my father, and a glassy sea 
Made for the stars a mirror of its breast, 

While southing, pennon-like, in bravery 

Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest. 

Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny 
Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed ; 

Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus. 

And know th' uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us. 

But yet more strange the nights of falling rain, 
That splashed without — a sea-coal fire within ; 

Life's old things gone astern, the mind's disdain. 
For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. 

All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain 
Express that sound. The words are not to win 

Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild 

Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child. 

Sensation like a piercing arrow flies, 

Daily out-going thought. This Adamhood, 

This weltering river of mankind that hies 
Adown the street ; it cannot be withstood. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 101 

The richest mundane miles not otherwise 

Than by a symbol keep possession good, 
Mere symbol of division, and they hold 
The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold 

And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. 

Why this ? A million strong the multitude, 
And safe, far safer than our wilderness 

The walls ; for them it daunts with right at feud. 
Itself declares for law ; yet sore the stress 

On steeps of life : what power to ban and bless j 
Saintly denial, waste inglorious. 
Desperate want, and riches fabulous. 

Of souls what beautiful embodiment 

For some ; for some what homely housing writ ; 
What keen-eyed men who beggared of content 

Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it ; 
What flutterers after joy that forward went, 

And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit 
For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear 
Of all things good the most awanting here. 

Some in the welter of this surging tide 

Move like the mystic lamps, the Spirits Seven, 

Their burning love runs kindling far and wide, 
That fire they needed not to steal from heaven. 



102 THE BELL-BIRD. 

'T was a free gift flung clown with them to bide, 

And be a comfort for the hearts bereaven, 
A warmth, a glow, to make the failing store 
And parsimony of emotion more. 

"What glorious dreams in that find harbourage, 
The phantom of a crime stalks this beside, 

And those might well have writ on some past page, 
In such an hour, of such a year, we — died, 

Put out our souls, took the mean way, false wage, 
Course cowardly ; and if we be denied 

The life once loved, we cannot alway rue 

The loss ; let be : what vails so sore ado. 

And faces pass of such as give consent 

To live because 't is not worth while to die ; 

This never knew the awful tremblement 

When some great fear sprang forward suddenly. 

Its other name being hope — and there forth went 
As both confronted him a rueful cry 

From the heart's core, one urging him to dare, 

' Now ! now ! Leap now.' The other, ' Stand, forbear. 

A nation reared in brick. How shall this be ? 

Nor by excess of life death overtake. 
To die in brick of brick her destiny. 

And as the hamadryad eats the snake 



THE DELL-BIRD. 103 

His wife, and then the snake his son, so she 

Air not enough, ' though everyone doth take 
A little,' water scant, a plague of gold, 
Light out of date — a multitude born old. 

And then a three-day siege might be the end ; 

E'en now the rays get muddied struggling down 
Through heaven's vasty lofts, and still extend 

The miles of brick and none forbid, and none 
Forbode ; a great world-wonder that doth send 

High fame abroad, and fear no setting sun. 
But helpless she through wealth that flouts the day 
And through her little children, even as they. 

But forth of London, and all visions dear 

To eastern poets of a watered land 
Are made the commonplace of nature here, 

Sweet rivers always full, and always bland. 
Beautiful, beautiful ! What runlets clear 

Twinkle among the grass. On eveiy hand 
Fall in the common talk from lips around 
The old names of old towns and famous ground. 

It is not likeness only charms the sense, 
Not difference only sets the mind aglow, 

It is the likeness in the difference. 

Familiar language spoken on the snow, 



104 THE BELL-BIRD. 

To have the Perfect in the Present tense, 

To hear the ploughboy whistling, and to know, 
It smacks of the wild bush, that tune — 'T is ours. 
And look ! the bank is pale with primrose flowers. 

What veils of tender mist make soft the lea. 
What bloom of air the height ; no veils confer 

On warring thought or softness or degree 

Or rest. Still falling, conquering, strife and stir. 

For this religion pays indemnity. 

She pays her enemies for conquering her. 

And then her friends ; while ever, and in vain 

Lots for a seamless coat are cast again 

Whose it shall be ; unless it shall endow 
Thousands of thousands it can fall to none, 

But faith and hope are not so simple now. 
As in the year of our redemption — One. 

The pencil of pure light must disallow 

Its name and scattering, many hues put on, 

And faith and hope low in the valley feel. 

There it is well with them, 't is very well. 

The land is full of vision, voices call. 

Can spirits cast a shadow ? Ay, I trow 
Past is not done, and over is not all, 

Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 105 

The gossamer of thought doth fihiilike fall, 

On fallows after dawn make shimmering show, 
And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize. 
Mix learning's latest guess and last surmise. 

There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens ' about 
That time when kings go forth to battle ' dart, 

Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout 
To dare, and down yclad ; I shared the smart 

Of grieved cushats, bloom of love, devout 

Beyond man's thought of it. Old song my heart 

Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders' ways 

To look on, and their fashions of past days. 

The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see, 

Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar, 

Their age of serfdom with my spirit free ; 
We cannot all have wisdom ; some there are 

Believe a star doth rule their destiny. 

And yet they think to overreach the star. 

For thought can weld together things apart. 

And contraries find meeting in the heart. 

In the deep dust at Suez without sound 

I saw the Arab children walk at eve. 
Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground, 

A part of Time's grave quiet. I receive 



106 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Since then a sense, as nature might have found 

Love kin to man's that with the past doth grieve ; 
And lets on waste and dust of ages fall 
Her tender silences that mean it all. 

We have it of her, with her ; it were ill 

For men, if thought were widowed of the world, 

Or the world beggared of her sons, for still 
A crowned sphere with many gems impearled 

She rolls because of them. We lend her will 

And she yields love. The past shall not be hurled 

In the abhorred limbo while the twain, 

Mother and son, hold partnership and reign. 

She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. 

Is she in league with heaven ? That knows but One. 
For man is not, and yet his work we see 

Full of unconscious omen darkly done. 
I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury 

To frame the face of the midwinter sun, 
Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled 
At midwinter the Sun did rise — the Child. 

Still would the world divine though man forbore, 
And what is beauty but an omen ? — what 

But life's deep divination cast before, 

Omen of coming love ? Hard were man's lot, 



THE BELL-BIRD. 107 

With love and toil together at his door, 

But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got ; 
His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. 
Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true. 

Love, love, and come it must, then life is found 
Beforehand that was whole and fronting care, 

A torn and broken half in durance bound 

That mourns and makes request for its right fair 

Remainder, with forlorn eyes cast around 
To search for what is lost, that unaware 

With not an hour's forebodement makes the day 

From henceforth less or more for ever and aye. 

Her name — my love's — I knew it not ; who says 
Of vagrant doubt for such a cause that stirs 

His fancy shall not pay arrearages 

To all sweet names that might perhaps be hers ? 

The doubts of love are powers. His heart obeys, 
The world is in them, still to love defers. 

Will play with him for love, but when 't begins 

The play is high, and the world always wins. 

For 't is the maiden's world, and his no more. 

Now thus it was : with new found kin flew by 
The temperate summer ; every wheatfield wore 

Its gold, from house to house in ardency 



108 THE BELL-BIRD. 

Of heart for what they showed I westward bore — 

My mother's land, her native hills drew nigh ; 
I was — how green, how good old earth can be — 
Beholden to that land for teaching me. 

And parted from my fellows, and went on 

To feel the si^iritual sadness spread 
Adown long pastoral hollows. And anon 

Did words recur in far remoteness said : 
' See the deep vale ere dews are dried and gone, 

Where my so happy life in peace I led. 
And the great shadow of the Beacon lies — 
See little Ledbury trending up the rise. 

With peaked houses and high market hall — 
An oak each pillar — reared in the old days. 

And here was little Ledbury, quaint withal. 
The forest felled, her lair and sheltering place 

She long time left in age pathetical. 

' Great oaks ' methought, as I drew near to gaze, 

' Were but of small account when these came down, 

Drawn rough-hewn in to serve the tree-girt town. 

And thus and thus of it will question be 

The other side the world.' I paused awhile 

To mark. ' The old hall standeth utterly 
Without or floor or side, a comely pile. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 109 

A house on pillars, and by destiny 

Drawn under its deep roof I saw a file 
Of children slowly through their way make good, 
And lifted up mine eyes — and there — she stood. 

She was so stately that her youthful grace 
Drew out, it seemed, my soul unto the air, 

Astonished out of breathing by her face 
So fain to nest itself in nut-brown hair 

Lying loose about her throat. But that old place 
Proved sacred, she just fully grown too fair 

For such a thought. The dimples that she had ! 

She was so truly sweet that it was sad. 

I was all hers. That moment gave her power — 
And whom, nay what she was, I scarce might know, 

But felt I had been born for that good hour. 
The perfect creature did not move, but so 

As if ordained to claim all grace for dower. 
She leaned against the pillar, and below 

Three almost babes, her care, she watched the while 

With downcast lashes and a musing smile. 

I had been 'ware without a rustic treat, 

Waggons bedecked with greenery stood anigh, 

A swarm of children in the cheerful street 
With girls to marshal them ; but all went by 



110 THE BELL-BIRD. 

And none I noted save this only sweet : 

Too young her charge more venturous sport to try, 
With whirling baubles still they play content, 
And softly rose their lisping babblement. 

' O what a pause ! to be so near, to mark 
The locket rise and sink upon her breast ; 

The shadow of the lashes lieth dark 

Upon her cheek. O fleeting time, rest ! 

A slant ray finds the gold, and with a spark 
And flash it answers, now shall be the best. 

Her eyes she raises, sets their light on mine, 

They do not flash nor sparkle — no — but shine.' 

As I for very hopelessness made bold 

Did off my hat ere time there was for thought. 

She with a gracious sweetness, calm, not cold. 

Acknowledged me, but brought my chance to nought. 

' This vale of imperfection doth not hold 
A lovelier bud among its loveliest wrought ! 

She turns/ methought ' O do not quite forget 

To me remains for ever — that we met.' 

And straightway I went forth, I could no less, 

Another light unwot of fall'n on me, 
And rare elation and high hajipiness 

Some mighty power set hands of mastery 



THE BELL-DIRD. Ill 

Among my heartstrings, and they did confess 

Witli wikl throbs inly sweet, that minstrelsy 
A nightingale might dream so rich a strain, 
And pine to change her song for sleep again. 

The harp thrilled ever : O with what a round 
And series of rich pangs fled forth each note 

Oracular, that I had found, had found 

(Head waters of old Nile held less remote) 

Golden Dorado, dearest, most renowned ; 
But when as 't were a sigh did ovcrfloat. 

Shaping ' how long, not long shall this endure. 

All jour lejour' methought, ^ Aujour le Jour.' 

The minutes of that hour my heart knew well 
Were like the fabled pint of golden grain, 

Each to be counted, paid for, till one fell, 
Grew, shot up to another world amain. 

And he who dropped might climb it, there to dwell. 
I too, I clomb another world full fain, 

But was she there ? what would be the end. 

Might she nor there appear, nor I descend ? 

All graceful as a pahn tlie maiden stood; 

Men say the palm of palms in tropic Isles 
Doth languish in her deep primeval wood, 

And want the voice of man, his home, his smiles. 



112 THE BELL- BIRD. 

Nor flourish l)ut in his dear neighborhood ; 

She too shall want a voice that reconciles, 
A smile that charms — how sweet would heaven so 

please — 
To plant her at my door over far seas. 

I paced without, nor ever liege in truth 

His sovran lady watched with more grave eyes 

Of reverence, and she nothing ware forsooth, 
Did standing charm the soul with new surprise. 

Moving flow on a dimpled dream of youth. 

Look ! look ! a sunbeam on her. Ay, but lies 

The shade more sweetly now she passeth through 

To join her fellow maids returned anew. 

I saw (m3^self to bide unmarked intent) 
Their youthful ease and pretty airs sedate, 

They are so good, they are so innocent. 

Those Islanders, they learn their part so late, 

Of life's demand right careless, dwell content 
Till the first love's first kiss shall consecrate 

Their future to a world that can but be 

By their sweet martyrdom and ministry. 

Most happy of God's creatures. Afterward 
More than all women married thou wilt be, 

E'en to the soul. One glance desired afford, 

More than knight's service might'st thou ask of me. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 113 

Not any chance is mine, not the best word, 

No, nor the salt of life withouten thee. 
Must this all end, is my day so soon o'er ? 
Untroubled violet eyes, look once, — once more. 

No, not a glance : the low sun lay and burned, 
Now din of drum and cry of fife withal, 

Blithe teachers mustering frolic swarms returned, 
And new-world ways in that old market hall. 

Sweet girls, fair women, how my whole heart yearned 
Her to draw near who made my festival. 

With others closing round, time speeding on. 

How soon she would be gone, she would be gone ! 

Ay, but I thought to track the rustic wains, 
Their goal desired to note, but not anigh, 

They creaking down long hop ycrested lanes 
'Neath the abiding flush of that north sky. 

I ran, my horse I fetched, but fate ordains 

Love shall breed laughter when th' unloving spy. 

As I drew rein to watch the gathered crowd. 

With sudden mirth an old wife laughed aloud. 

Her cheeks like winter ajiples red of hue. 

Her glance aside. To whom her speech — to me ? 

* I know the thing you go about to do — 

The lady — ' ' What ! the lady — ' ' Sir,' saith she, 

VOL. II.— 8 



114 THE BELL-BIRD. 

(' I thank you kindly, sir), I tell you true 

She 's gone,' and 'here 's a coil ' methought ' will be. 
' Gone — where ? ' ' 'T is past my wit forsooth to say 
If they went Malvern way or Hereford way. 

A carriage took her up — where three roads meet 
They needs must pass ; you may o'ertake it yet.' 

And ' Oyez, Oyez ' peals adown the street, 
' Lost, lost, a golden heart with pearls beset.' 

' I know her, sir ? — not I. To help this treat, 
Many strange ladies from the country met.' 

' O heart beset with pearls ! my hope was crost. 

Farewell, good dame. Lost ! oh my lady lost.' 

And ' Oyez, O^^ez ' following after me 
On my great errand to the sundown went. 

Lost, lost, and lost, whenas the cross road flee 
Up tumbled hills, on each for eyes attent 

A carriage creepeth. 

' Though in neither she, 
I ne'er shall know life's worst impoverishment, 

An empty heart. No time, I stake my all, 

To right ! and chase the rose-red evenfall. 

Fly up, good steed, fly on. Take the sharp rise 
As 't were a plain. A lady sits ; but one. 

So fast the pace she turns in startled wise, 
She sets her gaze on mine and all is done. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 115 

" Persian Roxana " might have raised such eyes 

When Alexander sought her. Now the sun 
Dips, and my day is over ; turn and fleet 
The world fast flies, again do three roads meet.' 

I took the left, and for some cause unknown 
Full fraught of hope and joy the way pursued, 

Yet chose strong reasons sjieeding up alone 
To fortify me 'gainst a shock more rude. 

E'en so the diver carrieth down a stone 
In hand, lest he float up before he would, 

And end his walk upon the rich sea-floor, 

Those pearls he failed to grasp never to look on more. 

Then as the low moon heaveth, waxen white, 

The carriage, and it turns into a gate. 
Within sit three in pale pathetic light. 

O surely one of these my love, my fate. 
But ere I pass they wind away from sight. 

Then cottage casements glimmer. All elate 
I cross a green, there yawns with opened latch 
A village hostel capped in comely thatch. 

' The same world made for all is made for each. 

To match a heart's magnificence of hope. 
How shall good reason best high action teach 

To win of custom, and with home to cope 



116 THE BELL-BIRD. 

How warrantably may he hope to win 

A star, that wants it ? Shall he lie and grope, 
No, truly. — I will see her ; tell my tale. 
See her this once, — and if I fail — I fail.' 

Thus with myself I spoke. A rough brick floor 
Made the place homely ; I would rest me there. 

But how to sleep ? Forth of the unlocked door 
I passed at midnight, lustreless white air 

Made strange the hour, that ecstasy not o'er 
I moved among the shadows, all my care — 

Counted a shadow — her drawn near to bless, 

Impassioned out of fear, rapt, motionless. 

Now a long pool and water-hens at rest 
(As doughty seafolk dusk, at Malabar) 

A few pale stars lie trembling on its breast. 
Hath the Most High of all His host afar 

One most supremely beautiful, one best. 
Dearest of all the flock, one favourite star ? 

His Image given, in part the children know 

They love one first and best. It may be so. 

Now a long hedge ; here dream the woolly folk ; 

A majesty of silence is about. 
Transparent mist rolls off the pool like smoke, 

And Time is in his trance and uiffht devout. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 117 

Now the still house. O an I knew she woke 
I could not look, the sacred moon sheds out 
So many blessings on her rooftree low, 
Each more pathetic that she nought doth know 

I would not love a little, nor my start 

Make with the multitude that love and cease. 

He gives too much that giveth half a heart, 
Too much for liberty, too much for peace. 

Let me the first and best and highest impart, 
The whole of it, and heaven the whole increase ! 

For that were not too much. 

(In the moon's wake 

How the grass glitters, for her sweetest sake.) 

I would toward her walk the silver floors. 

Love loathes an average — all extreme things deal 
To love — sea-deep and dazzling height for stores. 

There are on Fortune's errant foot can steal, 
Can guide her blindfold in at their own doors, 

Or dance elate upon her slippery wheel. 
Courage ! there are 'gainst hope can still advance, 
Dowered with a sane, a wise extravagance. 

A song 

To one a dreaming : when the dew 
Falls, 't is a time for rest ; and when the bird 
Calls, 't is a time to wake, to wake for you. 



118 THE BELL-BIRD. 

A long-waking, aye, waking till a word 

Come from her coral mouth to be the true 
Sum of all good heart wanted, ear hath heard. 



Yet if alas ! might love thy dolour be, 
Dream, dear heart dear, and do not dream of me. 



I sing 

To one awakened, when the heart 

Cries 't is a day for thought, and when the soul 
Sighs choose thy part, O choose thy part, thy part. 

I bring to one beloved, bring my whole 
Store, make in loving, make O make mine art 

More. Yet I ask no, ask no wished goal 

But this — if loving might thy dolour be, 
Wake, O my lady loved, and love not me. 

' That which the many win, love's niggard sum, 
I will not, if love's all be left behind. 

That which I am I cannot unbecome, 
My past not unpossess, nor future blind. 

Let me all risk, and leave the deep heart dumb 
For ever, if that maiden sits enshrined 

The saint of one more happy. She is she. 

There is none other. Give her then to me. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 119 

Or else to be the better for her face 

Beholding it no more.' Then all night through 
The shadow moves with infinite dark grace. 

The light is on her windows, and the dew 
Comforts the world and me, till in my place 

At moonsetting, when stars flash out to view, 
Comes 'neath the cedar boughs a great repose, 
The peace of one renouncing, and then a doze. 



There was no dream, yet waxed a sense in me 
Asleep that patience was the better way, 

Appeasement for a want that needs must be, 
Grew as the dominant mind forbore its sway, 

Till whistling sweet stirred in the cedar tree — 
I started — woke — it was the dawn of day. 

That was the end. ' Slow solemn growth of light, 

Come what come will, remains to me this night.' 



It was the end, with dew ordained to melt. 
How easily was learned, how all too soon 

Not there, not thereabout such maiden dwelt. 
What was it promised me so fair a boon ? 

Heart-hope is not less vain because heart-felt, 
Gone forth once more in search of her at noon 

Through the sweet country side on hill, on plain, 

I sought and sought many long days in vain. 



120 THE BELL-BIRD. 

To Malvern next, with feathery woocHand hung, 
Whereto old Piers the Plowman came to teach. 

On her green vasty hills the lay was sung. 
He too, it may be, lisping in his speech, 

' To make the English sweet upon his tongue.' 
How many maidens beautiful, and each 

Might him delight, that loved no other fair ; 

But Malvern blessed not me, — she was not there. 



Then to that town, but still my fate the same. 

Crowned with old works that her right well beseem, 
To gaze upon her field of ancient fame 

And muse on the sad thrall's most piteous dream, 
By whom a ' shadow like an angel came,' 

Crying out on Clarence, its wild eyes agleam, 
Accusing echoes here still falter and flee, 
' That stabbed me on the field by Tewkesbury.' 



It nothing 'vailed that yet I sought and sought, 

Part of my very self was left behind, 
Till risen in wrath against th' o'ermastering thought, 

' Let me be thankful,' quoth the better mind, 
Thankful for her, though utterly to nought 

She brings my heart's cry, and I live to find 
A new self of the old self exigent 
In the light of my divining discontent. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 121 

The picture of a maiden bidding 'Arise, 
I am the Art of God. He shows by me 

His great idea, so well as sin-stained eyes 
Love aidant can behold it.' 

Is this she ? 

Or is it mine own love for her supplies 

The meaning and the power ? Howe'er this be. 

She is the interpreter by whom most near 

Man's soul is drawn to beauty and pureness here. 

The sweet idea, invisible hitherto. 

Is in her face, unconscious delegate ; 
That thing she wots not of ordained to do : 

But also it shall be her votary's fate, 
Through her his early days of ease to eschew. 

Struggle with life and prove its weary weight. 
All the great storms that rising rend the soul. 
Are life in little, imaging the whole. 

Ay, so as life is, love is, in their ken 

Stars, infant yet, both thought to grasp, to keep. 
Then came the morn of passionate splendour, when 

So sweet the light, none but for bliss could weep. 
And then the strife, the toil ; but we are men. 

Strong, brave to battle with the stormy deep ; 
Then fear — and then renunciation — then 
Appeals unto the Infinite Pity — and sleep. 



122 THE BELL-BIRD. 

But after life the sleep is long. Not so 

With love. Love buried lieth uot straight, not still, 
Love starts, and after lull awakes to know 

All the deep things again. And next his will, 
That dearest pang is, never to forego. 

He would all service, hardship, fret fulfill. 
Unhappy love ! and I of that great host 
Unhappy love who cry, unhappy most. 



Because renunciation was so short. 

The starved heart so easily awaked ; 
A dream could do it, a bud, a bird, a thought. 

But I betook me with that want which ached 
To neighbour lands where strangeness with me wrought. 

The old work was so hale, its fitness slaked 
Soul-thirst for truth. ' I knew not doubt nor fear,' 
Its language, ' war or worship, sure sincere.' 



Then where by Art the high did best translate 
Life's infinite pathos to the soul, set down 

Beauty and mystery, that imperious hate 

On its best braveness doth and sainthood frown. 

Nay more the Master's manifest pity — 'wait. 
Behold the palmgrove and the promised crown. 

He suffers with thee, for thee. — Lo the Child ! 

Comfort thy heart ; he certainly so smiled.' 



TEE BELL-BIRD. 123 

Thus love and I wore through the winter time. 

Then saw her demon blush Vesuvius try. 
Then evil ghosts white from the awful prime, 

Thrust up sharp peaks to tear the tender sky. 
' No more to do but hear that English chime ' 

I to a kinsman wrote. He made reply, 
' As home I bring my girl and boy full soon, 
I pass through Evesham, — meet me there at noon. 

' The bells your father loved you needs must hear. 
Seek Oxford next with me,' and told the day. 

* Upon the bridge I '11 meet you. What ! how dear 
Soever was a dream, shall it bear sway 

To mar the waking ? ' 

I set forth, drew near. 
Beheld a goodly tower, twin churches grey, 

Evesham. The bridge, and noon. I nothing knew 

"What to my heart that fateful chime would do. 

For suddenly the sweet bells overcame 

A world unsouled ; did all with man endow ; 

His yearning almost tell that passeth name 

And said they were full old, and they were now 

And should be ; and their sighing upon the same 
For our poor sake that pass they did avow, 

While on clear Avon flowed like man's short day 

The shining river of life lapsing away. 



124 THE BELL-BIRD. 

The stroke of noon. The bell-bird ! yes and no. 

Winds of remembrance swept as over the foam 
Of anti-natal shores. At home is it so, 

My country folk ? A}^, 'neath this pale blue dome, 
Many of you in the moss lie low — lie low. 

Ah ! since I have not her, give me too, home. 
A footstep near ! I turned ; past likelihood, 
Past hope, before me on the bridge — she stood. 



A rosy urchin had her hand ; this cried, 

' We think you are our cousin — yes, you are ; 

I said so to Estelle.' The violet-eyed, 

' If this be Geoffrey ? ' asked ; and as from far 

A doubt came floating up ; but she denied 

Her thought, yet blushed. O beautiful ! my Star ! 

Then, with the lifting of my hat, each wore 

That look which owned to each, ' We have met before. 



Then was the strangest bliss in life made mine ; 

I saw the almost worshipped — all remote ; 
The Star so high above that used to shine. 

Translated from the void where it did float, 
And brought into relation with the fine 

Charities earth hath grown. A great joy smote 
Me silent, and the child atween us tway. 
We watched the lucent river stealing away. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 125 

While her deep eyes down on the ripple fell, 

Quoth the small imp, ' " How fast you go and go, 

You Avon. Does it wish to stop, Estelle, 

And hear the clock, and see the orchards blow ? 

It does not care ! Not when the old big bell 

Makes a great buzzing noise ? — Who told you so ;' 

And then to me, " I like to hear it hum. 

Why do you think that father could not come ? 

Estelle forgot her violin. And he, 

then he said : " How careless, child, of you ; 
I must send on for it. 'T would pity be 

If that were lost." 

I want to learn it too ; 
And when I 'm nine I shall." 

Then turning, she 
Let her sweet eyes unveil them to my view ; 
Her stately grace outmatched my dream of old, 
But ah ! the smile dull memory had not told. 

My kinsman next, with care-worn kindly brow. 

' Well, father,' quoth the imp, ' we 've done our part. 
We found him.' 

And she, wholly girlish now, 

Laid her young hand on his with lovely art 
And sweet excuses. O ! I made my vow 

1 would all dare, such life did warm my heart ; 



126 THE BELL-BIRD. 

We journeyed, all the air with scents of price 
Was laden, and the goal was Paradise. 

When that the Moors betook them to their sand, 

Their domination over in fair Spain, 
Each locked, men say, his door in that loved land, 

And took the key in hope to come again. 
On Moorish walls yet hung, long dust each hand, 

The keys, but not the might to use, remain ; 
Is there such house in some blest land for me ? 
I can, I will, I do reach down the key. 

A country conquered oft, and long before, 

Of generations aye ordained to win ; 
If mine the power, I will unlock the door. 

Enter, O light, I bear a sunbeam in. 
What, did the crescent wane ! Yet man is more, 

And love achieves because to heaven akin. 
O life ! to hear again that wandering bell. 
And hear it at thy feet, Estelle, Estelle. 

Full oft I want the sacred throated bird, 

Over our limitless waste of light which spoke 

The spirit of the call my fathers heard, 

Saying ' Let us pray,' and old world echoes woke 

Ethereal minster bells that still averr'd. 

And with their phantom notes th' all silence broke. 



THE BELL-BIRD. 127 

' The fanes are far, but whom they shrined is near. 
Thy God, the Island God, is here, is here.' 

To serve ; to serve a thought, and serve apart 
To meet ; a few short days, a maiden won. 

' Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart, 
Betaking me to countries of the sun.' 

' "What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and 
dart, 
Make me to like them.' 

' Love, it shall be done.' 

' Wliat weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.' 

' It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.' 

' Hark, hark, O hark ! the spirit of a bell ! 

Wliat would it ? (' Toll.') An air-hung sacred call, 
Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell ' — 

' Toll ' — ' Toll.' 

The longed-for voice, but ah, withal 
I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell 

That touched and could the over-sense enthrall. 
Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep 
As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep. 

If love and death are ever reconciled, 

'T is when the old lie down for the great rest. 

We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild 

That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed 



128 LOSS AND WASTE. 

"With audible silence ; and great hills inisled 
Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest 
And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread, 
And tall rock lilies towered above her head. 



Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue, 
The shade below yon passion plant that lies, 

And very sweet is love, and sweet are you, 
My little children dear, with violet eyes, 

And sweet about the dawn to hear anew 
The sacred monotone of peace ai-ise. 

Love, 't is thy welcome from the air-hung bell, 

Conjrratulant and clear, Estelle, Estelle. 



LOSS AND WASTE. 

T TP to far Osteroe and Suderoe 

^^ The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks, 
O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go, 
O'er sunken bravery of high carved decks. 

In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale 

(All her waste works choke under sandy shoals) ; 

And reckless hands tore down the temple veil ; 
And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls. 



ON A PICTURE. 129 

The Old World arts men suffered not to last, 

Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view, 

He lets wild forest for these ages past 
Grow over the lost cities of the New. 

O for a life that shall not be refused 

To see the lost things found, and waste things used. 



ON A PICTURE. 

A S a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx 
-^ ■*• Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim, 
Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix 

Till the dark ferryman shall come for him. 

And past all hope a long ray in his sight, 

Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black 

Reveals an upward path to life and light. 
Nor any let but he should mount that track. 

As with the sudden shock of joy amazed, 
He might a motionless sweet moment stand, 

So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed. 

For hope had died and loss was near at hand. V 

' Wilt thou ? ' his quest. Unready but for ' Nay,' 
He stands at fault for joy, she whispering ' Ay.' 

VOL. II. — 9 



130 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

T^© Iroom'li limff pacing all mg:!)t tI)roug:l) tfjc totntiij 
falloto. 

' Let me alone, mine enemy, let me alone,' 

Never a Christian bell that dire thick gloom to hallow, 

Or guide him, shelterless, succourless, thrust from his own. 

Foul spirits riding the wind do flout at him friendless, 
The rain and the storm on his head beat ever at will ; 
His weird is on him to grope in the dark with endless 
Weariful feet for a goal that shifteth still. 

A sleuth-hound baying ! The sleuth-hound bayeth be- 
hind him. 

His head, he flying and stumbling turns back to the sound, 

Whom doth the sleuth-hound follow ? What if it find 
him ; 

Up ! for the scent lietli thick, up from the level ground. 

Uji, on, he must on, to follow his weird essaying, 
Lo you, a flood from the crag cometh raging past, 
He falls, he fights in the water, no stop, no staying. 
Soon the king's head goes under, the weird is dreed at 
last. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 131 



* Wake, O king, the best star worn 

In the crown of night, forlorn 

Blinks a fine white point — 't is morn.' 

Soft ! The queen's voice, fair is she, 

' Wake ! ' He waketh, living, free, 

In the chamber of arras lieth he. 

Delicate dim shadows yield 

Silken curtains over head 

All abloom with work of neeld, 

Martagon and milleflower spread. 

On the wall his golden shield, 

Dinted deep in battle field. 

When the host o' the Khalif fled. 

Gold to gold Long sunbeams flit 

Upward, tremble and bi-eak on it. 

' Ay, 't is over, all things writ 

Of my sleep shall end awake. 

Now is joy, and all its bane 

The dark shadow of after pain.' 

Then the queen saith, ' Nay, but break 

Unto me for dear love's sake 

This thy matter. Thou hast been 

In great bitterness I ween 

All the night-time.' But ' My queen. 

Life, love, lady, rest content, 

111 dreams fly, the night is spent. 



132 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Good (lay drawetli on. Lament 
'Vaileth not, — yea peace,' quotli he ; 
' Sith this thing no better may be, 
Best were held 'twixt thee and me.' 
Then the fair queen, ' Even so 
As thou wilt, O king, but know 
Mickle nights have wrought thee woe, 
Yet the last was troubled sore 
Above all that went before.' 
Quoth the king, ' No more, no more.* 
Then he riseth, pale of blee, 
As one spent, and utterly 
Master'd of dark destiny. 



Comes a day for glory famed 
Tidings brought the enemy shamed, 
Fallen ; now is peace proclaimed. 
And a swarm of bells on high 
Make their sweet din scale the sky, 
' Hail ! hail ! hail ! ' the people cry 
To the king his queen beside. 
And the knights in armour ride 
After until eventide. 



All things great may life afford. 

Praise, power, love, high pomp, fair gaud, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 133 

Till the banquet be toward 

Hath this king. Then day takes flight, 

Sinketh sun and fadeth light, 

Late he coucheth — Night ; 't is night. 

Wit prottti feing: ^eaJinff t^t I)ost on W reti--roan cbarpr. 

Dust. On a thicket of spears glares the Syrian sun, 
The Saracens swarm to the onset, larger aye larger 
Loom their fierce cohorts, they shout as the day were 



Brown faces fronting the steel-bright armour, and ever 
The crash o' the combat runs on with a mighty cry, 

Fell tumult ; trampling and carnage — then fails en- 
deavour, 
O shame upon shame — the Christians falter and fly. 

The foe upon them, the foe afore and behind them. 
The king borne back in the melee ; all, all is vain ; 

They fly with death at their heels, fierce sun-rays blind 
them, 
Riderless steeds affrighted, tread down their ranks 



Disgrace, dishonour, no rally, ah no retrieving. 

The scorn of scorns shall his name and his nation 
brand. 



134 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

'T is a sword that smites from the rear, his helmet 
cleaving, 
That hurls him to earth, to his death on the desert 
sand. 



Ever they fly, the cravens, and ever reviling 

Flies after. Athirst, ashamed, he yieldeth his breath. 

While one looks down from his charger ; and calm slow 
smiling, 
Curleth his lip. 'T is the Khalif. And this is death. 



'Wake, yon purple peaks arise. 
Jagged, bare, through saffron skies ; 
Now is heard a twittering sweet, 
For the mother-martins meet, 
Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, 
Glisten on the battlement. 
Now the lark at heaven's gold gate 
Aiming, sweetly chides on fate 
That his brown wings wearied were 
When he, sure, was almost there. 
Now the valley mist doth break, 
Shifting sparkles edge the lake, 
Love, Lord, Master, wake, wake ! 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 135 



Ay, he wakes, — and dull of cheer, 
Though this queen be very dear, 
Though a respite come with day 
From th' abhorred flight and fray, 
E'en though life be not the cost. 
Nay, nor crown nor honour lost ; 
For in his soul abideth fear 
Worse than of the Khalif's spear. 
Smiting when perforce in flight 
He was borne, — for that was night. 
That his weird. But now 't is day, 
' And good sooth I know not — nay, 
Know not how this thing could be. 
Never, more it seemeth me 
Than when left the weird to dree, 
I am I. And it was I 
Felt or ever they turned to fly, 
How, like wind, a tremor ran, 
The right hand of every man 
Shaking. Ay, all banners shook. 
And the red all cheeks forsook, 
Mine as theirs. Since this was I, 
Who my soul shall certify 
When again I face the foe 
Manful courage shall not go. 



136 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Ay, it is not thrust o' a spear, 
Scorn of infidel eyes austere. 
But mine own fear — is to fear.' 



After sleep thus sore bestead. 
Beaten about and buffeted, 
Featly fares the morning spent 
In high sport and tournament. 



Served within his sumptuous tent, 
Looks the king in quiet wise. 
Till this fair queen yield the prize 
To the bravest ; but when day 
Falleth to the west away, 
Unto her i' the silent hour, 
While she sits in her rose-bower. 
Come, ' O love, full oft,' quoth she, 
' I at dawn have prayed thee 
Thou would'st tell o' the weird to me, 
Sith I might some counsel find 
Of my wit or in my mind 
Thee to better.' ' Ay, e'en so. 
But the telling shall let thee know,' 
Quoth the king, ' is neither scope 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 137 

For sweet counsel nor fair hope, 
Nor is found for respite room, 
Till the uttermost crack of doom. 



Then the queen saith, ' Woman's wit 
No man asketh aid of it. 
Not wild hyssop on a wall 
Is of less account ; or small 
Glossy gnats that flit i' the sun 
Less worth weighing — light so light ! 
Yet when all 's said — ay, all done, 
Love, I love thee ! By love's might 
I will counsel thee aright, 
Or would share the weird to-night.' 
Then he answer'd, ' Have thy way. 
Know 't is two years gone and a day 
Since I, walking lone and late. 
Pondered sore mine ill estate ; 
Open murmurers, foes concealed, 
Famines dire i' the marches round, 
Neighbour kings unfriendly found, 
Ay, and treacherous plots revealed 
Where I trusted. I bid stay 
All my knights at the high crossway, 
And did down the forest fare 
To bethink me, and despair. 



138 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

'All ! thou gilded toy a throne, 
If one mounts to thee alone, 
Quoth I, mourning while I went, 
Haply he may drop content 
As a lark wing-weary down 
To the level, and his crown 
Leave for another man to don ; 
Throne, thy gold steps raised upon. 
But for me — O as for me 
What is named I would not dree. 
Earn, or conquer, or forego 
For the barring of overthrow.' 



' Aloud I spake, but verily 
Never an answer looked should be. 
But it came to pass from shade 
Pacing to an open glade. 
Which the oaks a mighty wall 
Fence about, methought a call 
Sounded, then a pale thin mist 
Rose, a pillar, and fronted me, 
Rose and took a form I wist, 
And it wore a hood on 'ts head, 
And a long white garment spread. 
And I saw the eyes thereof. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 139 



Then my plumed cap I doff, 

Stooping. 'T is the white-witch. ' Hail, 

Quoth the witch, ' thou shalt prevail 

An thou wilt ; I swear to thee 

All thy days shall glorious shine, 

Great and rich, ay, fair and fine, 

So what followeth rest my fee, 

So thou'lt give thy sleep to me.' 



While she spake my heart did leap. 
Waking is man's life, and sleep — 
What is sleep ? — a little death 
Coming after, and methought 
Life is mine and death is nought 
Till it come, — so day is mine 
I will risk the sleep to shine 
In the waking. 

And she saith. 
In a soft voice clear and low, 
' Give thy plumed cap also 
For a token.' 

' Didst thou give ? ' 
Quoth the queen ; and ' As I live 
He makes answer ' none can tell. 
I did will my sleep to sell. 



140 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

And in token held to her 

That she asked. And it fell 

To the grass. I saw no stir 

In her hand or in her face, 

And no going ; but the place 

Only for an evening mist 

Was made empty. There it lay, 

That same plumed cap, alway 

On the grasses — but I wist 

Well, it must be let to lie, 

And I left it. Now the tale 

Ends, th' events do testify 

Of her truth. The days go by 

Better and better ; nought doth ail 

In the land, right happy and hale 

Dwell the seely folk ; but sleep 

Brings a reckoning ; then forth creep 

Dreaded creatures, worms of might. 

Crested with my plumed cap 

Loll about my neck all night, 

Bite me in the side, and lap 

My heart's blood. Then oft the weird 

Drives me, where amazed, afeard, 

I do safe on a river strand 

Mark one sinking hard at hand 

While fierce sleuth-hounds that me track 

Fly upon me, bear me back, 

Fling me away, and he for lack 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 141 

Of man's aid in piteous wise 
Goeth under, drowns and dies 

XII. 

' O sweet wife, I suffer sore — 

methinks aye more and more 
Dull my day, my courage numb, 
Shadows from the night to come. 
But no counsel, hope, nor aid 

Is to give ; a crown being made 
Power and rule, yea all good things 
Yet to hang on this same weird 

1 must dree it, ever that brings 
Chastening from the white-witch feared. 
O that dreams mote me forsake, 
Would that man could alway wake.' 



Now good sooth doth counsel fail. 

Ah this queen is pale, so pale. 

* Love,' she sigheth, ' thou didst not well 

Listening to the white-witch fell, 

Leaving her doth thee advance 

Thy plumed cap of maintenance.' 



' She is white, as white snow flake,' 
Quoth the king ; ' a man shall make 



142 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Bargains with her and not sin.' 
' Ay,' she saith, ' but an he win, 
Let him look the right be done 
Else the rue shall be his own. 



No more words. The stars are bright, 

For the feast high halls be dight 

Late he coucheth. Night — 't is night. 

Cf)c tJtaU feiitff Ipiits in state in ti)e iHinstcr ^alp. 

Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet, 
A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly, 
And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms 
meet. 

Two days dead. Is he dead ? Nay, nay — but is he 

living ? 

The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold. 

The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance 

giving. 

The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold. 

Neither to move nor to moan, though sunk and though 
swallow'd 
Li earth he shall soon be trodden hard and no more 
seen. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 143 

Soft you the door again ! Was it a footstep followed, 
Falter'd, and yet drew near him ? — Malva, Malva the 
queen ! 

One hand o' the dead king liveth (e'en so him seemeth) 
On the purple robe, on the ermine that folds his breast 

Cold, very cold. Yet e'en at that pass esteemeth 

The king, it were sweet if she kissed the place of its rest. 

Laid her warm face on his bosom, a fair wife grieved 
For the lord and love of her youth, and bewailed him 
sore ; 

Laid her warm face on the bosom of her bereaved 
Soon to go under, never to look on her more. 

His candles guide her with pomp funereal flaring. 
Out of the gulfy dark to the bier whereon he lies. 

Cometh this queen i' the night for grief or for daring. 
Out o' the dark to the light with large affrighted eyes ? 

The pale queen speaks in the Presence with fear upon 
her, 
' "Where is the ring I gave to thee, where is my ring ? 
I vowed — 't was an evil vow — by love, and by honour, 
Come life or come death to be thine, thou poor dead 
king.' 



144 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

The pale queen's honour! A low laugh scathing and 
sereiug — 
A mumbling as made by the dead in the tombs ye 
wot. 
Braveth the dead this queen ? ' Hear it, whoso hath 
hearing, 
I vowed by my love, cold king, but I loved thee not.' 

Honour ! An echo in aisles and the solemn portals. 
Low sinketh this queen by the bier with its freight for- 
lorn ; 
Yet kneeling, 'Hear me!' she crieth, 'you just immor- 
tals, 
You saints bear witness I vowed and am not forsworn. 

I vowed in my youth, fool-king, when the golden fetter 
Thy love that bound me and bann'd me full weary I 
wore, 

But all poor men of thy menai I held them better, 
All stalwart knights of thy train unto me were more. 

Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee, 
Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the 
throne : 
Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee, 
Though I dare thy presence — I — come for my ring 
alone.' 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 145 

She risen sliuddereth, peering, afraid to linger 

Behold her ring, it shineth ! ' Now yield to me, thou 
dead. 
For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.' 
The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the 
queen hath fled. 

' woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleaved. 
The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for 
its meed ' — 
The dead king lying in state, of his past bereaved, 

Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king 
indeed. 



< "Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, 
Drenched across yon rainy sky, 
"With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, 
And the clouds do weep themselves 
Into morning. 

All night long 
Hath thy weird thee sore opprest ; 
"Wake, I have found within my breast 
Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong. 
But the time is told. Release 
Openeth on him when his eyes 
Lift them in dull desolate wise. 
And behold he is at peace. 

VOL. II. — 10 



146 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Ay, but silent. Of all done 
And all suffer'd in the night, 
Of all ills that do him spite 
She shall never know that one. 
Then he heareth accents bland, 
Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, 
And he riseth calmed withal. 



Eain and wind on the palace wall 
Beat and bluster, sob and moan. 
When at noon he musing lone. 
Comes the queen anigh his seat, 
And she kneeleth at his feet. 



Quoth the queen, ' My love, my lord, 
Take thy wife and take thy sword, 
"We must forth in the stormy weather, 
Thou and I to the witch together. 
Thus I rede thee counsel deep. 
Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep. 
Turning so man's wholesome life 
From its meaning. Thine intent 
None shall hold for innocent. 
Thou dost take thy good things first. 
Then thou art cast into the worst ; 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 147 

First the glory, then the strife. 
Nay, but first thy trouble dree, 
So thy peace shall sweeter be. 
First to work and then to rest, 
Is the way for our humanity, 
Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, 
We must forth and from this strife 
Buy the best part of man's life ; 
Best and worst thou boldest still 
Subject to a witch's will. 
Thus I rede thee counsel deep. 
Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep ; 
Take the crown from off thy head. 
Give it the white-witch instead. 
If in that she say thee nay. 
Get the night, — and give the day.' 



Then the king (amazed, mild, 
As one reasoning with a child 
All his speech) : ' My wife ! my fair ! 
And his hand on her brown hair 
Trembles ; ' Lady, dost indeed 
Weigh the meaning of thy rede ? 
Would'st thou dare the dropping away 
Of allegiance, should our sway 
And sweet splendour and renown 
All be risked ? (methiuks a crown 



148 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Doth become tliee marvellous well). 
We ourself are, truth to tell, 
Kingly both of wont and kind, 
Suits not such the craven mind.' 
' Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' 
Quoth the queen, ' And live ; ' then he, 
' I must die and leave the fair 
Unborn, long-desired heir 
To his rightful heritage.' 



But this queen arisen doth high 
Her two hands uplifting, sigh 
' God forbid.' And he to assuage 
Her keen sorrow, for his part 
Searcheth, nor can find in his heart 
"Words. And weeping she will rest 
Her sweet cheek upon his breast. 
Whispering, ' Dost thou verily 
Know thou art to blame ? Ah me, 
Come,' and yet beseecheth she, 
* Ah me, come.' 

For good for ill, 
Wliom man loveth hath her will. 
Court and castle left behind, 
Stolen forth in the rain and wind, 
Soon they are deep in the forest, fain 
The white-witch to raise again ; 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 149 

Down and deep where flat o'erhead 
Layer on layer do cedars spread, 
Down where lordly maples strain, 
Wrestlinff with the storm amain. 



Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high 
Headlong fall'n break through, and lie 
With their prey in piteous wise, 
And no film on their dead eyes. 
Matted branches grind and crash. 
Into darkness dives the flash, 
Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, 
Loads the lift with splinters dire. 
Then a pause i' the deadly feud — 
And a sick cowed quietude. 



Soh ! A pillar misty and grey, 
'T is the white-witch in the way. 
Shall man deal with her and gain ? 
I trow not. Albeit the twain 
Costly gear and gems and gold 
Freely offer, she will hold 
Sleep and token for the pay 
She did get for greatening day. 



150 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



' Or the night shall rest my fee 
Or the day shall nought of me,' 
Quoth the witch. ' An 't thee beseem, 
Sell thy kingdom for a dream.' 



' Now what will he let it be ! ' 

Quoth the queen ; ' but choose the right.' 

And the white-witch scorns at her, 

Stately standing in their sight. 

Then without or sound or stir 

She is not. For offering meet 

Lieth the token at their feet, 

Which they, weary and sore bestead 

In the storm, lift up, full fain 

Ere the waning light hath fled 

Those high towers they left to gain. 



Deep among tree roots astray 
Here a torrent tears its way, 
There a cedar split aloft 
Lies head downward. Now the oft 
Muttering thunder, now the wind 
Wakens. How the path to find ? 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 151 

How the turning ? Deep ay deep^ 
Far ay far. She needs must weep, 
This fair woman, lost, astray 
In the forest ; nought to say. 
Yet the sick thoughts come and go, 
' I, 't was I would have it so.' 



Shelter at the last, a roof 

Wrought of ling (in their behoof, 

Foresters, that drive the deer). 

What, and must they couch them here ? 

Ay, and ere the twilight fall 

Gather forest berries small 

And nuts down beaten for a meal. 



Now the shy wood-won ners steal 
Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, 
Winking owls on silent wings 
Glance, and float away. The light 
In the wake o' the storm takes flight, 
Day departeth : night — 't is night 

CTfie croton'ii feinj muBiing: at morn ftp a clear sinect riijtr* 
Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow ; 

Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver, 
Oracles haply. The language he doth not know. 



152 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Bare, blue, are yon peaked hills for a rampart lying, 
As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead, 

'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet 
sighing. 
If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread ? 

I might — I might be at rest in some field Elysian, 
If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair, 

I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision, 
So clear and silent the water, the field, the air. 

Love, are you by me ! Malva, what think you this 
meaneth ? 

Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there ? 
Are they immortals ? Look you a winged one leaneth 

Down from yon pine to the river of us^ unaware. 

All unaware ; and the country is full of voices. 

Mild strangers passing : they reck not of me nor of thee. 

List! about and around us Avondrous sweet noises, 

Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be. 

Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth 
Over her lips, and they move as in joeace supreme, 

And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth, 
' O this is thy dream atween us — this is thy dream.' 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 153 

AVas it then truly his dream with her dream that blended ? 
' Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, * and mine 
own little son.' 
' Father,' the small thing murmurs ; then all is ended, 
He starts from that passion of peace — ay, the dream is 
done. 



* I have been in a good land,' 
Quoth the king : ' O sweet sleep bland. 
Blessed ! I am grown to more, 
Now the doing of right hath moved 
Me to love of right, and proved 
If one doth it, he shall be 
Twice the man he was before. 
Verily and verily. 
Thou fair woman, thou didst well ; 
I look back and scarce may tell 
Those false days of tinsel sheen, 
Flattery, feasting, that have been. 
Shows of life that were but shows, 
How they held me ; being I ween 
Like sand-pictures thin, that rose 
Quivering, when our thirsty bands 
Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands ; 
Shade of palms on a thick green plot, 
Pools of water that was not. 
Mocking us and melting away. 



154 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



I have been a witch's prey, 

Art mine enemy now by day, 

Thou fell Fear ? There comes an end 

To the day ; thou canst not wend 

After me where I shall fare, 

My foredoomed peace to share. 

And awake with a better heart, 

I shall meet thee and take my part 

O' the dull world's dull spite ; with thine 

Hard will I strive for me and mine.' 



A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, 
Malva the queen awakes. A sigh • 
One amazed moment — ' Ay, 
"We remember yesterday, 
Let us to the palace straight : 
What ! do all my ladies wait — 
Is no zeal to find me ? What ! 
No knights forth to meet the king ; 
Due observance, is it forgot ? ' 



' Lady,' quoth the page, ' I bring 
Evil news. Sir king, I say, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 155 

My good lord of yesterday, 
Evil news.' This king saith low, 
' Yesterday, and yesterday, 
The queen's yesterday we know. 
Tell us thine.' ' Sir king,' saith he, 
Hear. Thy castle in the night 
Was surprised, and men thy flight 
Learned but then ; thine enemy 
Of old days, our new king, reigns ; 
And sith thou wert not at pains 
To forbid it, hear als6, 
Marvelling whereto this should grow 
How thy knights at break of morn 
Have a new allegiance sworn, 
And the men-at-arms rejoice, 
And the people give their voice 
For the conqueror. I, Sir king, 
Rest thine only friend. I bring 
Means of flight ; now therefore fly, 
A great jirice is on thy head. 
Cast her jewel'd mantle by, 
Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie 
(Sith disguise ye need, and bread) 
Down yon pleached track, down, down, 
Till a tower shall on thee frown ; 
Him that holds it show this ring : 
So farewell, my lord the king.' 



156 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



Had one marked that palfrey led 
To the tower, he sooth had said, 
These are royal folk and rare — 
Jewels in her plaited hair 
Shine not clearer than her eyes, 
And her lord in goodly wise 
With his plumed cap in 's hand 
Moves in the measure of command. 

XXXIII. 

Had one marked where stole forth two 
From the friendly tower anew, 
* Common folk ' he sooth had said, 
Making for the mountain track. 
Common, common, man and maid, 
Clad in russet, and of kind 
Meet for russet. On his back 
A wallet bears the stalwart hind ; 
She, all shy, in rustic grace 
Steps beside her man apace, 
And wild roses match her face. 

XXXIV. 

Whither speed they ? Where are toss'd 
Like sea foam the dwarfed pines 
At the jagged sharp inclines ; 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 157 

To the country of the frost 
Up the mountains to be lost, 
Lost. No better now may be, 
Lost where mighty hollows thrust 
'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, 
Fill themselves with crimson dust 
When the tumbling sun down hurl'd 
Stares among them drearily, 
As a' wondering at the lone 
Gulfs that weird gaunt company 
Fenceth in Lost there unknown. 
Lineage, nation, name, and throne. 



Lo, in a crevice choked with ling 
And fir, this man, not now the king, 
This Sigismund, hath made a fire, 
And by his wife in the dark night 
He leans at watch, her guard and squire. 
His wide eyes stare out for the light 
Weary. He needs must chide on fate, 
And she is asleep. ' Poor brooding mate, 
What ! wilt thou on the mountain crest 
Slippery and cold scooji thy first nest ? 
Or must I clear some uncouth cave 
That laired the mother wolf, and save — 
Spearing her cubs — the grey pelt fine 
To be a bed for thee and thine ? 



158 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, 
' Mine ; but who dares to pity thee 
Shall pity, not for loss of all, 
But that thou wert my wife perdie, 
E'en wife unto a witch's thrall, — 
A man beholden to the cold 
Cloud for a covering, he being sold 
And hunted for reward of gold. 



But who shall chronicle the ways 
Of common folk — the nights and days 
Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, 
Of travellers come whence no man knows, 
Then gone aloft on some sharp height 
In the dumb peace and the great light 
Amid brown eagles and wild roes ? 



'T is the whole world whereon they lie, 

The rocky pastures hung on high 

Shelve oif upon an empty sky. 

But they creep near the edge, look down 

Great heaven ! another world afloat, 

Moored as in seas of air ; remote 

As their own childhood ; swooning away 

Into a tenderer sweeter day, 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 159 

Innocent, sunny. ' O for wings ! 
There lie the lands of other kings — 
I, Sigismund, my sometime crown 
Forfeit ; forgotten of renown 
My wars, my rule ; I fain would go 
Down to yon peace obscure.' 

Even so ; 
Down to the country of the thyme, 
Where young kids dance, and a soft chime 
Of sheepbells tinkles ; then at last 
Down to a country of hollows, cast 
Up at the mountains full of trees, 
Down to fruit orchards and wide leas, 

XXXYIII. 

With name unsaid and fame unsunned 

He walks that was King Sigismund. 

With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, 

New from the East, with friar and clown, 

He mingles in a walled town. 

And in the mart where men him scan 

He passes for a merchant man. 

For from his vest, where by good hap 

He thrust it, he his plumed cap 

Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, 

And up and down he makes essay 

To sell them ; they are all his wares 

And wealth. He is a man of cares, 



160 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

A man of toil ; no roof hath he 
To shelter her full soon to be 
The mother of his dispossessed 
Desired heir. 

XXXIX. 

Few words are best. 
He, once King Sigismund, saith few, 
But makes good diligence and true. 
Soon with the gold he gather'd so, 
A little homestead lone and low 
He buyeth : a field, a copse, with these 
A melon patch and mulberry trees. 
And is the man content ? Nay, morn 
Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn. 
Though right be done and life be won. 
Yet hot is weeding in the sun. 
Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing. 
Are hard on sinews of a king. 



And Malva, must she toil ? E'en so. 
Full patiently she takes her part. 
All, all so new. But her deep heart 
Forebodes more change than shall be shown 
Betwixt a settle and a throne. 
And lost in musing she will go 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 161 

About the winding of her silk, 
About the skimming her goat's milk, 
About the kneading of her bread, 
And water drawn from her well-head. 



Then come the long nights dark and still. 
Then come the leaves and cover the sill, 
Then come the swift flocks of the stare. 
Then comes the snow — then comes the heir. 

XLII. 

If he be glad, if he be sad, 

How should one question when the hand 

Is full, the heart. That life he had. 

While leisure was aside may stand. 

Till he shall overtake the task 

Of every day, then let him ask 

(If he remember — if he will), 

' When I could sit me down and muse, 

And match my good against mine ill. 

And weigh advantage dulled by use 

At nothing, was it better with me ? ' 

But Sigismund ! It cannot be 

But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, 

A dreamer on a day gone by 

The king is come. 

VOL. II. — 11 



162 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

XLIII. 

His vassals two 
Serve with all homage deep and due. 
He is contented, he doth find 
Belike the kingdom much to his mind. 
And when the long months of his long 
Reign are two years, and like a song 
From some far sweeter world, a call 
From the king's mouth for fealty, 
Buds soon to blossom in language fall, 
They listen and find not any plea 
Left, for fine chiding at destiny. 

XLIV. 

Sigismund hath ricked the hay, 

He sitteth at close o' a sultry day 

Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 

' Hey for the world, and the world is wide, 

The world is mine, and the world is — these 

Beautiful Malva leans at his side. 

And the small babbler talks at his knees. 

XLV. 

Riseth a waft as of summer air, 
Floating upon it what moveth there ? 
Faint as the light of stars and wan 
As snow at night when the moon is gone, 
It is the white-witch risen once more. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 103 



The white witch that tempted of yore 

So utterly doth substance lack, 

You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. 

Soft her eyes, her speech full clear : 

' Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, 

Bargain with me yea or nay. 

Nay, I go to my true place, 

And no more thou seest my face. 

Yea, the good be all thine own, 

For now will I advance thy day, 

And yet will leave the night alone. 



Sigismund makes answer ' Nay. 
Though the Highest heaped on me 
Trouble, yet the same should be 
Welcomer than weal from thee. 
Nay ; — for ever and ever Nay.' 
O, the white-witch floats away. 
Look you, look ! A still pure smile 
Blossoms on her mouth the while, 
"White wings peaked high behind, 
Bear her ; — no, the wafting wind. 
For they move not, — floats her back. 
Floats her up. They scarce may track 



164 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 

Her swift rising, shot on high 
Like a ray from the western sky, 
Or a hirk from some grey wold 
Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold, 



Then these two long silence hold. 
And the lisping babe doth say 
' White white bird, it flew away.' 
And they marvel at these things, 
For her ghostly visitings 
Turn to them another face. 
Haply she was sent, a friend 
Trying them, and to good end 
For their better weal and grace ; 
One more wonder let to be 
In the might and mystery 
Of the world, where verily 
And good sooth a man may wend 
All his life, and no more view 
Than the one right next to do. 



So, the welcome dusk is here, 

Sweet is even, rest is dear ; 

Mountain heads have lost the light, 

Soon they couch them. Night — 't is night. 



THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 165 

^tffismttnli Ureaming; tieIig:I)t6omeIp after ()i6 fiaping;. 

(' Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, ' is 
sweet.') 
' Sigismund, Sigismund ' — ' Who is this calling and saying 
" Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet. 

Is it not dark — ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber, 
O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine 
eaves.' 

' Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number 
Calling, the noise is as dro^^ping of rain upon leaves. 

'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, 
hear ye.' 
' Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore. 
Come back. King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee 
and fear thee. 
The people cry out O come back to us, reign ever- 
more. 

Tlie new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor 
brother, 
Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of 
cakes ? 
Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother, 
Sigismund ? ' — dreaming he falls uito laughter and 
wakes. 



166 THE SLEEP OF SIGISMUND. 



And men say this dream came true, 
For he walking in the dew 
Turned aside while yet was red 
On the highest mountain head, 
Looking how the wheat he set 
Flourished. And the knights him met 
And him prayed * Come again, 
Sigismund our king, and reign/ 
But at first — at first they tell 
How it liked not Malva well ; 
She must leave her belted bees 
And the kids that she did rear. 
When she thought on it full dear 
Seemed her home. It did not please 
Sigismund that he must go 
From the wheat that he did sow ; 
When he thought on it his mind 
Was not that should any bind 
Into sheaves that wheat but he, 
Only he ; and yet they went, 
And it may be were content. 
And they won a nation's heart ; 
Very well they played their part. 
They ruled with sceptre and diadem, 
And their children after them. 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 167 



O 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 

NLY you 'd have me speak. 



Whether to speak 
Or whether to be silent is all one ; 
Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front 
Her small scared face forlorn ; whether to wake 
And muse upon her small soft feet that paced 
The hated, hard, inhospitable stone — 
I say all 's one. But you would have me speak, 
And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, 
Right reverend father, comfortable father, 
Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell. 
So will I here — here staring through the grate. 
Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town. 
Her street appears a riband up the rise ; 
Where 't is right steei^ for carts, behold two ruts 
Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. 

That side I stood ; 
My head was down. At first I did but see 
Her coming feet ; they gleamed through my hot tears 
As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. 
Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid 
Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart. 



168 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Her face, ! it was wonderful to me, 

There was not iu it what I look'd for — no, 

I never saw a maid go to her death, 

How should I dream that face and the dumb soul ? 

Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked 
All in her smock so modest as she might ; 
Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape 
For horrible adornment, flames of fire 
Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads. 

Her eyes — she did not see me — opened wide. 
Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked 
Nothing ; and her two hands uplift as praying, 
She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, 
She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing ; 
But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, 
She would half-turn her or to left or right 
To follow other streets, doubting her way. 

Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, 
And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides 
She came ; I knew not if 't was -present to her 
That death was her near goal ; she was so lost. 
And set apart from any power to think. 
But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father,' 
Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 169 

Scarce was it fear ; so looks a timid child 
(Not more affrighted ; ah ! but not so pale) 
That has been scolded or has lost its way. 



Mother and father — father and mother kind, 
She was alone, where were you hidden ? Alone, 
And I that loved her more, or feared death less, 
Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, 
And cast behind o' the pikemen following her 
Into a yelling and a cursing crowd, 
That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars ; 
Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze. 
Who swarmed after up the narrowing street. 



Pitiful heaven ! I knew she did not hear 

In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul 

Words ; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, 

In her life blameless ; even at that pass, 

That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse. 

Though nought I longed for as for death, to know 

She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes 

Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty ; 

Secret delight, that so great cruelty, 

AH in the sacred name of Holy Church, 

Their meed to look on it should be anon. 

Speak ! O, I tell you this thing passeth word ! 



170 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

From roofs and oriels high, women looked down ; 
Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun 
Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant. 

Lo ! next a stand, so please you, certain priests 
(May God forgive men sinning at their ease). 
Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing. 
Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come. 
Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake. 
Upon its windward side. 

My life ! my love ! 
She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread 
While they did chain her. This thing passeth words. 
Albeit told out for ever in my soul. 
As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek 
Eolled out and raised the wind, and instantly 
Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft. 
Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. 
The vile were merciful ; heaped high, my dear, 
Thou didst not suffer long. O ! it was soon, 
Soon over, and I knew not any more. 
Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, 
I heard mj^self, and scarcely knew 't was I, 
At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, 
Crying and craving for a stake, for me. 
While fast the folk, as ever, such a work 
Being over, fled, and shrieked ' A heretic ! 
More heretics ; yon ashes smoking still.' 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 171 

And up and almost over me came on 

A robed — ecclesiastic — with his train 

(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) 

Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. 

And I lying helpless, with my bruised face 

Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, 

Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, 

Delivering orders, * Take the bruised wretch. 

He raves. Fool ! thou 'It hear more of this anon. 

Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. 

With that some threw a cloth upon my face 

Because it bled. I knew they carried me 

Within his home, and I was satisfied ; 

Willing my death. Was it an abbey door ? 

Was 't entrance to a palace ? or a house 

Of priests ? I say not, nor if abbot he, 

Bishop or other dignity ; enough 

That he so spake. ' Take in the bruised wretch.' 

And I was borne far up a turret stair 

Into a peaked chamber taking form 

O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left 

Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, 

Left in my pain, that evil things were said 

Of that same tower ; men thence had disappeared, 

Suspect of heresy had disappeared, 

Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. 

So be it methought, I would not live, not I. 

But none did question me. A beldame old, 



172 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. 

I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, 

And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. 

So had I food and water, rest and calm. 

Then on the third day I rose up and sat 

On the side of my low bed right melancholy, 

All that high force of passion overpast, 

I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears 

Spite of myself came to myself again 

(For I had slept), and since I could not die 

Looked through the window three parts overgrown 

With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, 

And saw at foot o' the rise another tower 

In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. 

Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, 

I knew even there had been my lost love's cell. 

So musing on the man that with his foot 

Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, 

' Would he had haled me straight to prison ' methought, 

' So made an end at once.' 

My sufferings rose 
Like billows closing over, beating down ; 
Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, 
Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. 

'T was thus, 
I came from Oxford secretly, the news 
Terrible of her danger smiting me, — 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 173 

She was so young, and ever had been bred 

With whom 't was made a peril now to name. 

There had been worship in the night ; some stole 

To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard 

Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. 

Father and mother, mother and father kind, 

So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, 

No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom ? 

I know the chiefest Evil One himself 

Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it 

Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. 

Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, 

Father and mother, mother and father kind, 

It may be yet ye know not this — not all. 

I in the daytime lying jjerdue looked up 
At the castle keep impregnable, — no foot 
How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night 
Descending, come I near, perplexedness, 
Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep 
Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, 
And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head 
Against the hopeless hated massiveness 
Of that detested hold. A lifting moon 
Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep 
Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while 
I was aware, but saw no shape, of one 
Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. 



174 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

I cared not, disavowal mattered nought 

Of grief to one so out of love with life. 

But after pause I felt a hand let down 

That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, 

Upon my shoulder ; there was cheer in it. 

And presently a voice clear, whispering, low. 

With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. 

Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church ? 

Coldly I answer'd ' Ay ; ' then blessed words 

That danced into mine ears more excellent 

Music than wedding bells had been were said, 

With certitude that I might see my maid, 

My dear one. He would give a paper, he 

The man beside me. ' Do thy best endeavour, 

Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child 

Surely will hearken to thee ; an she do, 

And will recant, fair faultless heretic, 

Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high 

Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced 

From her mouth innocent, then shall she come 

Before me ; have good cheer, all may be well. 

But an she will not she must burn, no power — * 

Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne 

With all his wisdom could find out a way. 

Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. 

Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God 

Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave ; himself 

Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 175 

A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. 
Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. 
lie read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame 
Till it was ashes ; ' Follow ' and no more 
Whisper'd, went np the giddy spiring way, 
I after, till we reached the topmost door. 
Tlien took a key, opened, and crying ' Delia, 
Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' 
I darted forward and he locked us in. 
Two figures ; one rose up and ran to me 
Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, 
Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept. 

But for that other, while she stood appeased 

For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, 

I had been glad, expecting a good end. 

The cramped pale fellow prisoner ' Courage ' cried. 

Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon 

Did show me its incomparable calms. 

Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, 

It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. 

The warm enchantment leaning on my breast 

Breathed as in air remote, and I was left 

To infinite detachment, even with hers 

To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, 

Look in those eyes and disinherit hope 

From that high place late won. 

Then murmuring low 



176 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

That other spake of Him on the ctoss, and soft 

As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, 

She ' One deep calleth to another ' sighed. 

' The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, " Endure. 

There was a day when to the wilderness 

My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth 

Sad messengers, demanding Art thou He ? 

Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour ? 

How could I hold the power, and want the will 

Or want the love ? That pang was his — and mine. 

He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, 

But only Art thou He ? In my great way 

It was not writ, — legions of Angels mine. 

There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock 

At my behest the doomed deadly door. 

I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, 

We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, 

Think not so deejDly on 't ; make us endure 

For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn 

" I will go forth, thy desolations meet. 

And with my desolations solace them. 

I will not break thy bonds but I am bound, 

With thee." ' 

I feared. That speech deep furrows cut 
In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, 
' Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' 
But Delia said not ought ; only her hand 
Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 177 

Her own. O there was comfort, father, 

In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom. 

Then spake I, and that other said no more, 
For I appealed to God and to his Christ. 
Unto the strait-barred window led my dear ; 
No table, bed, nor plenishing ; no place 
They had for rest : maugre two narrow chairs 
By day, by night they sat thereon upright. 
One drew I to the opening ; on it set 
My Delia, kneeled ; upon its arm laid mine. 
And prayed to God and prayed of her. 

Father, 
If you should ask e'en now, ' And art thou glad 
Of what befell ? ' I could not say it, father, 
I should be glad ; therefore God make me glad, 
Since we shall die to-morrow ! 

Think not sin, 
O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. 
'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st 
Also for me, lest I be lost ; but aye 
Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, 
A token of acceptance. I am cast 
From Holy Church, and not received of thine ; 
But the great Advocate who knoweth all, 
He whispers with me. 

O my Delia wept 
When I did plead ; ' I have much feared to die/ 



178 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes 
Fell ; shining tears upon their lashes hung ; 
Fair showed the dimple that I loved ; so young, 
So very young.) ' But they did question me 
Straitly, and make me many times to swear, 
To swear of all alas, that I believed. 
Truly, unless my soul I would have bound 
With false oaths — difficult, innumerous, strong, 
"Way was not left me to get free. 

But now,' 
Said she, ' I am happy ; I have seen the place 
Where I am going. 

I will tell it you. 
Love, Hubert. Do not weep ; they said to me 
That you would come, and it would not be long. 
Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, 
I was crying in the night \ and prayed to God 
And said, " I have not learned high things ; " and said 
To the Saviour, " Do not be displeased with me, 
I am not crying to get back and dwell 
With my good mother and my father fond, 
Nor even with my love, Hubert — my love, 
Hubert ; but I am crying because I fear 
Mine answers were not rightly given — so hard 
Those questions. If I did not understand, 
Wilt thou forgive me ? " And the moon went down 
While I did pray, and looking on the floor, 
Behold a little diamond lying there, 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 179 

So small it might have dropped from out a ring. 

I could but look ! The diamond waxed — it grew — 

It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, 

And in the midst of it a rose-red point ; 

It waxed till I might see the rose-red point 

Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, 

AVith a face sweet as the first kiss, O love. 

You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing. 

Now was it tall as I, among the rays 
Standing ; I touched not. Through the window drawn, 
This barred and narrow window, — but I know 
Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk 
Upon the air, till on the roof we sat. 

It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all 

The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, 

It was my Angel sent to comfort me 

With a message, and the message, " I might come. 

And myself see if He forgave me." Then 

Deliver'd he admonition, " Afterwards 

I must return and die." But I being dazed, 

Confused with love and joy that lie so far 

Did condescend, " A}^, Eminence," replied, 

" Is the way great ? " I knew not what I said. 

The Angel then, " I know not far nor near, 

But all the stars of God this side it shine." 

And I forgetful wholly for this thing 



180 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

My soul did pant in — a rapture and a pain, 

So great as they would melt it quite away 

To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays 

Shot from the daystar reckon with it — I 

Said in my simpleness, " But is there time ? 

For in three days I am to burn, and O 

I would fain see that he forgiveth first. 

Pray you make haste." " I know not haste," he said 

" I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. 

What is it ? " And I marvelled, saw outlying, 

Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like 

An oval in the sky beyond all stars. 

And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound 

To that same golden holy hollow. I 

Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. 

I set off wingless, walking empty air 

Beside him. In a moment we were caught 

Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell 

Of might, only a little less than gods, 

And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, 

Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out 

O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face. 

Yet felt I nought ; the place was vaster far 

Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. 

Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, 

Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. 

Time has no instant for the reckoning ought 

So sudden ; 't was as if a lightning flash 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 181 

Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, 

We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, 

Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness. 

All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed 
Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint 
To the last silence, and the eery grave 
Inhabit, and the slow solemnities 
Of dying faced, content me with my shroud. 

And yet was lying athwart the morning star 
That shone in front, that holy hollow ; yet 
It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, 
That in her time of sleep appeared to look 
Up to it, into it. 

We, though I wept, 
Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, 
My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate 
To its all-hallowed sweet desired gold. 
We on the empty limitless abyss 
Walked slowly. It was far ; 

And I feared much. 
For lo ! when I looked down deep under me 
The little earth was such a little thing. 
How in the vasty dark find her again ? 
The crescent moon a moored boat hard by, 



182 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

With a small gift of silver. 

Love ! my life ! 
Hubert, while I yet wept, we were there. 
A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars 
Took us among them (all alive with stars 
Shining and shouting each to each that place) , 
The feathered multitude did lie so thick 
We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, 
And the great gates were standing open. 

Love! 
The country is not what you think ; but oh ! 
When you have seen it nothing else contents. 
The voice, the vision was not what you think — 
But oh ! it was all. It was the meaning of life, 
Excellent consummation of desires 
For ever, let into the heart with pain 
Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul 
Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward 
(For I had bowed my face on it) I found 
Grew in my spirit's longed for native land — 
At last I was at home.' 

And here she paused : 
I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, 
Therefore she could not tell me what she heard. 
Therefore she might not tell me what she saw. 
Only I understood that One drew near 
Who said to her she should e'en come, ' Because,' 
Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 183 

He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, 

Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, 

So that I shall not lose whom I love — thee.' 

Other words wonderful of things not known, 

When she had uttered, I gave hope away, 

Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, 

Asking no more. Then while the comfortless 

Dawn till night fainted grew, alas ! a key 

That with abhorred jarring probed the door. 

We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed 

'Remember.' ' Ay, I will remember. What?' 

' To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth — 

I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied 

My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, 

And the great door was shut behind and chained. 

The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, 
More kin to death of night than birth of morn, 
Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. 
I heard the crying of the men condemned, 
Men racked, that should be martyr 'd presently, 
And my great grief met theirs with might ; I held 
All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, 
The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. 
Ay, and the partings they were all mine — mine. 
Father, it will be very good raethinks 
To die so, to die soon. It doth appease 



184 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

The soul in misery for its fellows, when 
There is no help, to suffer even as they. 

Father, when I had lost her, when I sat 
After my sickness on the pallet bed, 
My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold 
Some one beside me. A man's hand let down 
With that same action kind, compassionate, 
Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand 
Between mine own, laying my face thereon. 
I knew this man for him who spoke with me, 
Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. 
Lo ! lo ! the robed ecclesiastic proud. 
He and this other one. Tell you his name ? 
Am I a fiend ? No, he was good to me, 
Almost he placed his life in my hand. 

Father, 
He with good pitying words long talked to me, 
' Did I not strive to save her ? ' ' Ay,' quoth I. 
' But sith it would not be, I also claim 
Death, burning ; let me therefore die — let me. 
I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, 
I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. 
She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' 
What answer ? ' Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. 
Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, 
Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul 
Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 185 

My payment in the lives snatched at all risk 
From battling in it here. O, an thou turn 
And tear from me, lost to that other world 
My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost ; 
Now have I doubly failed.' 

Father, I know 
The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, 
Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, 
Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. 
But God is greater than the Church. I hope 
He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. 
I hope to hear it said ' Thy sins are all 
Forgiven ; come in, thou hast done well.' 

For me 
My chronicle comes down to its last page. 
' Is not life sweet ? ' quoth he, and comforted 
My sick heart with good words, ' duty ' and ' home.' 
Then took me at moonsetting down the stair 
To the dark deserted midway of the street, 
Gave me a purse of money, and his hand 
Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words 
A father might have said, bad me God speed, 
So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone. 

There was a Pleiad lost ; where is she now ? 
None knoweth, — she reigns, it is my creed, 
Otherwhere dedicate to making day. 
The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that 



186 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Who wasteth never ought He fashioned. 
I have no vision, but where vision fails 
Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, 
The god of this world being so unkind. 
O love ! My girl for ever to the world 
"Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, 
But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost 
For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, 
By envy of the evil one ; I mourn 
For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn. 

He set me free. And it befell anon 

That I must imitate him. Then 't befell 

That on the holy Book I read, and all, 

The mediating Mother and her Babe, 

God and the Church, and man and life and death, 

And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame. 

Did take on alteration. Like a ship 

Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, 

Not bound to any land, not sure of land. 

My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea 

She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done. 

This God was not the God I had known ; this Christ 

Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ — 

By a mother and a Father infinite — 

In distance each from each made kin to me. 

Blest Sufferer on the rood ; but yet, I say 



THE MAID-MARTYR. 187 

Other. Far gq^itler, and I cannot tell, 
Father, if you, or she, my golden girl. 
Or I, or any aright those mysteries read. 

I cannot fathom them. There is not time, 
So quickly men condemned me to this cell. 
I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church 
For that she taught, as that my love she burned. 
I die because I hid her enemies, 
And read the Book. 

But O, forgiving God, 
I do elect to trust thee. I have thought, 
Wliat! are there set between us and the sun 
Millions of miles, and did He like a tent 
Rear up yon vasty sky ? Is heaven less wide ? 
And dwells He there, but for His winged host, 
Almost alone ? Truly I think not so ; 
He lias had trouble enough with this poor world 
To make Him as an earthly father would. 
Love it and value it more. 

He did not give 
So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. 
And now He knows I would believe e'en so 
As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn 
Or certitude of heart ; but time fails, time. 
He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing 
Not to be sure of my love's welfare — not 
To see her happy and good in that new home. 



188 THE MAID-MARTYR. 

Most piteous. I could all foregp but this. 
O let me see her, Lord. 

What, also I! 
White ashes and a waft of vapour — I 
To flutter ou before the winds. No, no. 
And yet for ever ay — my flesh shall hiss 
And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable ! 
Is it to-morrow ? 

Ay, indeed, indeed, 
To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves 
That rise and break and thunder down on me. 
And then fall'n back sink low. 

I have waked lonj 
And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event ; 
They slip, they wander forth. 

How the dusk grows. 
This is the last moonrising we shall see. 
Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. 
Where is mine Advocate ? let Him say all 
And more was in my mind to say this night, 
Because to-morrow — Ah ! no more of that, 
The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep, 

Truly my soul is silent unto God. 



A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 189 



A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 



' T AURA, my Laura ! ' ' Yes, mother ! ' 'I want 
-'— ^ you, Laura ; come down.' 
' "What is it, mother — what, dearest ? O your loved face 

how it pales ! 
You tremble, alas and alas — you heard bad news from 

the town ? ' 
' Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage 

fails — 



Laura.' ' Where 's Ronald ? — O anything else but 

Ronald ! ' ' No, no, 
Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears ; 
But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will 

go, 
One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the 
years. 

III. 

Laura, you think of your father sometimes ? ' ' Sometimes ! ' 

' Ah, but how ? ' 
' I think — that we need not think, sweet mother — the 

time is no' let, 



190 A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 

He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now — 
— But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 
'Then let me forget.' 

IV. 

' The sun is oif the south window, draw back the curtain, 

my child.' 
' But tell it, mother.' * Answer you first what it is that 

you see.' 
' The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with 

blue ice piled.' 
' Nearer.' — ' But, mother ! ' ' Nearer ! ' ' My heifer she 's 

lowing to me.' 

V. 

' Nearer.' ' Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in 
the bower. 

Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow- 
white head. 

And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' ' Only 
one half hour — 

Laura ' — ' O mother, my mother dear, all known though 
nothing said. 

VI. 

O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on 

us, 
A beautiful face — T remember now, thouirh lonff I forirot.' 



A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST. 191 

' Ay and I loved it. I love liim to-day, and to see him 

thus ! 
Saying " I go if she bids it, for work her woe — I will not." 



There ! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think 

with your heart and soul.' 
' Was he innocent, mother ? If he was, I, sure had been 

told, 
' He said so.' ' Ah, but they do.' ' And I hope — and long 

was his dole, 
And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for 

gold.' 

VIII. 

' To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were 

free — 
But if he was innocent — O my heart, it is riven in two, 
If he goes how hard upon him — or stays — how harder 

on me, 
For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear, — my best what 

of you ! ' 

IX. 

' Peace ; think, my Laura — I say he will go there, weep 

not so sore. 
And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father 

will go, 



192 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 

As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen 
no more.' 

* There '11 be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to- 
day, no. 

X. 

I 'm going down the garden, mother.' ' Laura ! ' ' I 've 

dried my tears.' 
' O how will this end ! ' 'I know not the end, I can but 

begin.' 
'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," 

though long were those years, 
But I '11 say to him, " my poor father, we wait you, 

come in." 



LOVEKS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 



' A ND you brought him home.' ' I did, ay Ronald, it 
-^ ^ rested with me.' 
'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 

' I cannot weep. No.' 
' What is he like, your poor father ? ' ' He is — like — 

this fallen tree 
Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from 

the glow. 



LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 193 

II. 

Now scarlet, look ! overcoming the blue both lake and 

sky, 
While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in anu 

are not. 
And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there 

they lie.' 
' O Laura — I cannot bear it. Laura ! as if I forgot.' 

III. 

* No, you remember, and I remember that evening — like 

this 
When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a 

sinking sun. 
And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my 

troth kiss.' 
' Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, 

none. 

IV. 

It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought 

it could.' 
' I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought 

you base.' 
No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, 
Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold 

through 
VOL. n. — 13 



194 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 



O ! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps 

of the lake 
We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed 

on rocks below, 
So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake 
Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us 

show. 



we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine 
You wreathed for my hair ; because we remember this 

cannot be. 
Ah ! here is your ring — see, I draw it off — it must not 

be mine, 
Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me. 



I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the 

all 
From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to 

trust. 
O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well 

fall 
For that lost sunsetting and what it promised, — they 

may, they must. 



LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 195 



VIII. 

Do you say nothing, mine own beloved, you know what I 

mean. 
And whom. — To her pride and her love from you shall 

such blow be dealt. . . . 
. . . Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us 

between . . . 
As once there was darkness, now is there silence that 

may be felt. 

IX. 

Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her 

best, 
'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her 

gracious way. 
How could she bear it ? ' — ' Laura ! ' ' Yes, Ronald.' 

' Let that matter rest. 
You might give your name to my father's child ? ' ' My 

father's name. Ay, 

X. 

Who died before it was soiled.' ' You mutter.' ' Why, 

love, are you here ? ' 
* Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble 

to hide. 
And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon 

tier. 
Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed P^ngland aside.' 



196 LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE. 



* And why am I here ? ' ' But what did you mutter ? ' 

' O pardon, sweet. 
Why came I here and — my mother ? ' In truth then I 

cannot tell.' 
' Yet you drew my ring from your finger — see — I kneel 

at your feet.' 
' Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' ' Love ! 1 

knew that full well.' 



< And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to 

deplore. 
Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I 

can say, 
If indeed any word need be said.' ' No ! wait, Eonald, 

no more ; 
What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think 



I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me, — 

peace. 
For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn 

thing, 



THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. 197 

Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet 

is release.' 
' Laura ! but give me my troth kiss again.' ' And give 

me my ring.' 



THE WHITE MOON WASTETH. 

'T^HE white moon wasteth, 
-*- And cold morn hasteth 

Athwart the snow, 
The red east burneth 
And the tide turneth, 

And thou must go. 

Think not, sad rover. 
Their story all over 

Who come from far — 
Once, in the ages 
Won goodly wages 

Led by a star. 

Once, for all duly 
Guidance doth truly 

Shine as of old, 
Opens for me and thee 
Once, opportunity 

Her gates of gold. 



198 AN ARROW-SLIT. 

Enter, thy star is out, 
Traverse nor faint nor doubt 

Earth's antres wild. 
Thou shalt find good and rest 
As found the Magi blest 

That divine Child. 



AN ARROW-SLIT. 

T CLOMB full high the belfry tower 
-*- Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away, 
I said ' let me look on my heart's fair flower 
In the walled garden where she doth play.' 

My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause, 
White rose, red rose about her hung, 

And I aloft with the doves and the daws. 
They coo and call to their callow young. 

Sing, ' O an she were a white rosebud fair 
Dropt, and in danger from passing feet, 

'T is I would render her service tender. 

Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet. 

Playing at the ball, my dearest of all, 
When she grows older how will it be, 

I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day 
That heed not, need not, or mine or me. 



WENDOVER. 199 

Sing, ' an my love were a fledgeling dove 
That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest, 

'T is I would render her service tender, 
And carry her, carry her on my breast.' 



WENDOVER. 

T TPLIFTED and lone, set apart with our love 
^^ On the crest of a soft swelling down 
Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet 
Sail on above Wendover town. 

Wendover town takes the smile of the sun 

As if yearning and strife were no more, 
From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh, 

All the weight of the world is our own. 

Would that life were more kind and that souls might 
have peace 

As the wide mead from storm and from bale. 
We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there 

And how strange is their calm in the vale. 

As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep, 
Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret, 

Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away 
As if grief might attain to forget. 



200 THE LOVER PLEADS. 

Not if we two indeed had gone over tiie bourne 

And were safe on the hills of the blest, 
Not more strange they might show to us drawn from 
below, 

Come up from long dolour to rest. 

But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine, 

And sweeter the air than of yore, 
And this life we have led as a dream that is fled 

Might appear to our thought evermore. 

' Was It life, was it life ? ' we might say ' 't was scarce life,' 
' Was it love ? 't was scarce love,' looking down, 

' Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day 
Low lying on Wendover town. 



THE LOVER PLEADS. 



TT THEN I had guineas many a one 

' ^ Nought else I lacked 'neath the sun, 
I had two eyes the bluest seen, 
A perfect shape, a gracious mien, 
I had a voice might charm the bale 
From a two days widowed nightingale, 
And if you ask how this I know 
I had a love who told me so. 



THE LOVER PLEADS. 201 

The lover pleads, the mtiiJ hearkeneth, 
Her foot turns, his day darkeueth. 
Love unkind, O can it be 
'T was your foot false did turn from me. 



The gear is gone, the red gold spent, 
Favour and beauty with them went. 
Eyes take the veil, their shining done, 
Not fair to him is fair to none. 
Sweet as a bee's bag 't was to taste 
His praise. O honey run to waste, 
He loved not ! spoiled is all my way 
In the spoiling of that yesterday. 

The shadows wax, the low light alters, 
Gold west fades, and false heart falters. 
The pity of it ! — Love 's a rover, 
The last word said, and all over. 



202 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 



THE white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June 
weather, 

' O most sweet wear ; 
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, 
Four am I fair.' 

Quoth the brown bee 
* In thy white wear 
Four thou art fair. 
A mystery 
Of honeyed snow 
In scented air 
The bee lines flow 
Straight unto thee. 
Great boon and bliss 
All pure I wis, 
And sweet to grow 
Ay, so to give 
That many live. 
Now as for me, 
I,' quoth the bee, 
' Have not to give, 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 203 

Through long hours sunny- 
Gathering I live : 
Aye debonair 
Sailing sweet air 
After my fare, 
Bee-bread and honey. 
In thy deep coombe, 

thou white broom, 
Where no leaves shake, 
Brake, 

Bent nor clover, 

1 a glad rover. 
Thy calms partake. 
While winds of might 
From height to height 
Go bodily over. 

Till slanteth light. 
And up the rise 
Thy shadow lies, 
A shadow of white, 
A beauty-lender 
Pathetic, tender. 

Short is thy day ? 
Answer with ' Nay,' 
Longer the hours 
That wear thy flowers 
Than all dull, cold 



204 SONG IN THREE PARTS. 

Years manifold 
That gift withhold. 
A long liver, 

honey-giver, 
Thou by all showing 
Art made, bestowing, 

1 envy not 
Thy greater lot. 
Nor thy white wear. 
But, as for me, 

I,' quoth the bee, 
' Never am fair.' 



The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding 

Deeply and long, 
' Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas ! 
all 's over, 

O lost my song.' 

One in the tree, 

* Hush now ! Let be : 

The song at ending 

Left my long tending 

Over als6. 

Let be, let us go 

Across the wan sea. 



SONG IN THREE PARTS. 205 

The little ones care not, 
And I fare not 
Amiss with thee. 

Thou hast sung all, 
This hast thou had. 
Love, be not sad ; 
It shall befall 
Assuredly, 

When the bush buddeth 
And the bank studdeth — 
Wliere grass is sweet 
And damps do fleet, 
Her delicate beds 
"With daisy heads 
That the Stars Seven 
Leaned down from heaven 
Shall sparkling mark 
In the warm dark 
Thy most dear strain 
Wliich ringeth aye true — 
Piercing vale, croft 
Lifted aloft 
Dropt even as dew 
With a sweet quest 
To her on the nest 
When damps we love 
Fall from above. 



206 SONG IN THREE PARTS, 

" Art thou asleep ? 
Answer me, answer me, 
Night is so deep 
Thy right fair form 
I cannot see ; 
Answer me, answer me, 
Are the eggs warm ? 
Is 't well with thee ? " 

Ay, this shall be 
Assuredly. 
Ay, thou full fain 
In the soft rain 
Shalt sing again.' 



A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken, 

Her good days o'er ; 
' Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved. 

Seven — no more.' 

Then Echo woke — and spoke 
' No more — no more,' 

And a wave broke 
On the sad shore 

When Echo said 
' No more.' 



*IF I FORGET THEE.' 207 

Nought else made reply, 
Nor land, nor loch, nor sky 
Did any comfort try, 
But the wave spread 
Echo's faint tone 
Alone, 

All down the desolate shore, 
* No more — no more.' 



IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.' 

/^UT of the melancholy that is made 

^-^ Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs. 

Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, 

A note in new love-pipings on the bough, 

Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air 

And shaken milky corn doth wot of it. 

The pity of it trembling in the talk 

Of the beforetime merrymaking brook — 

Out of that melancholy will the soul, 

In proof that life is not forsaken quite 

Of the old trick and glamour which made glad ; 

Be cheated some good day and not perceive 

How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view. 

How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep. 

How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream 



208 'IF I FORGET THEE.' 

Interpreted to mean so much is found 

To mean and give so little — frets no more, 

Floating apart as on a cloud — then 

Not e'en so much as murmuring ' Let this end,' 

She wUl, no longer weighted, find escape, 

Lift up herself as if on wings and flit 

Back to tlie morning time. 

' O once with me 
It was all one, such joy I had at heart, 
As I heard sing the morning star, or God 
Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, 
And dip me in the day. 

O once with me,' 
Reflecting ' 't was enough to live, to look 
Wonder and love. Now let that come again. 
Rise ! ' And ariseth first a tanglement 
Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop 
Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, 
Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula. 
Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, 
Her pink buds pouting from their green. 

To these 
Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came 
To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. 
Then add wide pear trees on the warmed wall, 
The old red wall one cannot see beyond. 
That is the garden. 

In the wall a door 



'/F / FORGET thee: 209 

Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, 
And Id ! a sunny waste of tumbled hills 
And a glad silence, and an open calm. 
Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills 
Dance down delightedly, in every crease, 
And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip, 
Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. 
That is the world. 

An all-sufficient world, 
And as it seems an undiscovered world. 
So very few the folk that come to look. 
Yet one has heard of towns ; but they are far 
The world is undiscovered, and the child 
Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy 
Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells 
Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. 
What matters to the child, it matters not 
More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, 
That they for ages undiscovered went 
Marked not of man, attendant on their king. 

A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, 
There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland 
Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm, 
Their talk full oft was of old days, — for here 
Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn 2)ath 
Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come 
To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, 

VOL. II. — 14 



210 '7F / FORGET THEE.' 

Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head 
Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) 
That split, and all her ribs were on their fires 
The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright 
Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet 
The tide had turned. 

' Many,' methought, ' and rich 
They must have been, so long their chronicle. 
Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk. 
For ships at sea are few that near us now.' 

Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, 
Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock 
In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, 
' Look how she labours ; those aboard may hear 
Her timbers creak e'en as she 'd break her heart.' 

'T was then the grey gulls blown ashore would light 
In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet. 

And. so the world was sweet, and it was strange, 

Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower. 

Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. 

The laughter of glad music did not yet 

In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, 

Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss 

Like a moon halo in a watery sky, 

Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear 



'IF I FORGET THEE.' 211 

In a world not comprehended touch the heart — 
Tlie poetry of life was not yet born. 
'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days 
When some are known to feel ' God is about,' 
As if that morn more than another morn 
Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world 
Swam in a soothed calm made resonant 
And vital, swam as in the lap of God 
Come down ; until she slept and had a dream 
(Because it was too much to bear awake), 
That all the air shook with the might of Him 
And whispered how she was the favourite world 
That day, and bade her drink His essence in. 

'Tis on such days that seers propliesy 
And poets sing, and many who are wise 
Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things 
Whereof the hint came in that Presence known 
Yet unknown. But a seer — what is he ? 
A poet is a name of long ago. 

Men love the largeness of the field — the wild 
Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days 
They loved the shadow of the city wall, 
In its stone ramparts read their poetry, 
Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, 
Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there 



212 'IF I FORGET THEE.' 

This to excuse a child's allegiance and 
A spirit's recurrence to the older way. 
Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, 
Things came to pass not told before to me. 

Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. 
Through carriage windows I beheld the moors. 
Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. 
The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, 
Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels 
And see the lamjjs alight. This was the town. 

Then a wide inn received us, and full soon 
Came supper, kisses, bed. 

The lamp without 
Shone in ; the door was shut, and I alone. 
An ecstasy of exultation took 
My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, 
I was among so many, — none of them 
Knew I was come ! 

I rose, with small bare feet, 
Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child. 
And through the window peered. Behold the town. 

There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet 
In a soft lamplight down the narrow street ; 
The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock 
Chimed slowly, open shops across the way 



'IF I FORGET THEE.' 213 

Showed store of fruit, and store of bread, — and one 
Many caged birds. About were customers, 
I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice 
Was heard, — a woman sang, her little babe 
Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy 
Added wild notes and sweet to hers. 

Some passed 
Who gave her money. It was far from me 
To pity her, she was a part of that 
Admired town. E'en so within the shop 
A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, 
Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed 
The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe 
For boyish customers, and counted pence 
And dropped them in an apron that she wore. 
Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot. 
She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled. 



But yet the song went on, and in a while 

The meaning came ; the town was not enough 

To satisfy that singer, for a sigh 

With her wild music came. What wanted she ? 

Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how 

'T was poignant, her rich voice ; not like a bird's. 

Could she not dwell content and let them be, 

That they might take their pleasure in the town, 

For — no, she was not poor, witness the pence. 



214 '/F / FORGET THEE.' 

I saw lier boy and tliut small saleswoman ; 
He wary, she with grave pei'suasive air, 
Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, 
And joined his mother, happy, triumphing. 

This was the town ; and if you ask what else, 
I say good sooth that it was poetry 
Because it was the all, and something more, — 
It was the life of man, it was the world 
That made addition to the watching heart. 
First conscious its own beating, first aware 
How, beating it kept time with all the race ; 
Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim 
Of a Great Father watching too. 

But lo ! the rich lamenting voice again ; 
She sang not for herself ; it was a song 
For me, for I had seen the town and knew, 
Yearning I knew the town was not enough. 

What more ? To-day looks back on yesterday. 
Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn. 
And reads a meaning into it, unknown 
When it was with us. 

It is always so. 
But when as ofttimes I remember me 
Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, 
Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, 



'IF I FORGET TUEE: 215 

I know it was not pity that made yearn 

My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy 

How grand methought to be abroad so late, 

And barefoot dabble in the shining wet ; 

How fine to peer as other urchins did 

At those pent huddled doves they let not rest ; 

No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet 

The clash of bells ; they rang to boast that far 

That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog. 

From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. 

How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, 

To see the coach come up with din of horn, 

Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by 

Greet one another, and go on. 

But now 
They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, 
The beggars moved away — where was their home. 
The coach which came from out dull darksome fells 
Into the light ; passed to the dark again 
Like some old comet which knows well her way. 
Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop 
She turns, forebodes the destined silences. 
Yes, it was gone ; the clattering coach was gone, 
And those it bore I pitied even to tears, 
Because they must go forth, nor see the lights. 
Nor hear the chiming bells. 

In after days, 
Remembering of the childish envy and 



216 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

The childish pity, it has cheered my heart 
To think e'en now pity and envy both 
It may be are misplaced, or needed not. 
Heaven may look down in pity on some soul 
Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, 
For that it hath to wait as it were an hour 
To see the lights that go not out by night, 
To walk the golden street and hear a song ; 
Other-world poetry that is the all 
And something more. 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

WHITE as white butterflies that each one dons 
Her face their wide white wings to shade withal, 
Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring, 

While couched in rising barley titlarks call, 
And bees alit upon their martagons 
Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring. 

They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew 
And rifled their best blossom, counted on 

And di'eamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew 

That clogs bee-wings had dried ; but when outshone 

Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power 

To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower. 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 217 

Now must they go ; a-murmuring they go, 

And little thrushes twitter in the nest ; 
The world is made for them, and even so 

The clouds are ; they have seen no stars, the breast 
Of their soft mother hid them all the ni.iiht, 
Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light. 

Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, 
Prophecies, and tlieir meaning (for you see 

The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines 
Lie among sedges ; on a hawthorn tree 

The slender lord and master perched hard by, 

Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh. 

And our small river makes encompassment 

Of half the mead and holm : you lime-trees grow 

All heeling over to it, diligent 

To cast green doubles of themselves below, 

But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor 

And warm the yellow sand it ri^jples o'er. 

Ripples and ripples to a pool it made 

Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white — 
She should be painted with no touch of shade 

If any list to limn her — she the light 
Above, about her, treads out circles wide, 
And sparkling water flashes from her side. 



218 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

The clouds have all retired to so great height 
As earth could have no dealing with them more, 

As they were lost, for all her drawing and might. 
And must be left behind ; but down the shore 

Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, 

Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale, 

Another milky-way, more intricate 

And multitudinous, with every star 
Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate 

Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are 
That hover and hum for gladness, then the last 
Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed. 

And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie 

Each with his shadow under, while at ease 

As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry 
Turn and are gone in company ; o'er these 

Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes 

Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles. 

Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet 

The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear 

There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat 
Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near ; 

A mild lamenting fills the morning air, 

' Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare ? ' 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 219 

These might be fabulous creatures every one, 

And this tlieir world might be some other sphere 

We had but heard of, for all said or done 

To know of them, — of what this many a year 

They may have thought of man, or of his sway, 

Or even if they have a God and pray. 

The sweetest river bank can never more 

Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, 

Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, 
Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream. 

Not easier 't were that uubridged chasm to walk, 

And share the strange lore of their wordless talk. 

Like to a poet voice, remote from ken. 

That unregarded sings and undesired, 
Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, 

That faints at dawn in saffron light retired. 
Like to an echo in some desert deep 
From age to age unwakened from its sleep — 

So falls unmarked that other world's great song, 
And lapsing wastes without interpreter. 

Slave world ! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, 
He cannot to a loftier place prefer, 

But he can, — all its earlier rights forgot, 

Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot. 



220 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, 
An men had loved them better, it may be 

We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, 
After the sage saints in their clemency, 

Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, 

Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein. 

As grave Augustine pleading in his day, 
' Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, 

Lest such as pass do trample it in the way. 
Not marking, or not minding ; give the word, 

O bid an angel in the nest again 

To place it, lest the mother's love be vain. 

And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' 

This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell 

The parable ; all work of God Most High 

Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well ; 

To love is more than to be loved, by leave 

Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive. 

He made it so that said it. As for us 

Strange is their case toward us, for they give 

And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus 
In deed but not in will, for us they live. 

For us they die, we quench their little day, 

Remaining blameless, and they pass away. 



NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 221 

The world is better served than it is ruled, 

And not alone of them, for ever 
Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled 

Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. 
Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, 
He was among us ' as a man that served.' 

Have they another life, and was it won 

In the sore travail of another death, 
Which loosed the manacles from our race undone 

And plucked the pang from dying ? If this breath 
Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, 
* O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard ' 

May be their plaint when we shall meet again 
And make our peace with them ; the sea of life 

Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. 
Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, 

The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true. 

And things restored reach that great residue ? 

Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves. 
Shall furred creatures couch in moly floAvers, 

Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves. 
In difference welcome as these souls of ours ? 

Yet soul of man from soul of man far more 

May differ, even as thought did heretofore 



22 NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE. 

That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam : 
From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, 

Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, 
The winged Psyche and her butterfly — 

From thrones and powers, to — fresh from death alarms 

Child spirits entering in an angel's arms. 

Why must we think, begun in paradise. 

That their long line, cut off with severance fell, 

Shall end in nothingness — the sacrifice 
Of their long service in a passing knell ? 

Could man be wholly blest if not to say 

' Forgive ' — nor make amends for ever and aye ? 

Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. 

Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high. 
Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star^ 

Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, 
And pass no more accounted of than be 
Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea. 

The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all 

Save where it strikes some planet and her moons 

Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, 

Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, 

But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, 

Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more. 



PERDITA. 223 

God scattereth His abundance as forgot, 

And what then doth he gather ? If we know, 

'T is that One told us it was life. ' For not 
A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering k^ng ago 

The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound, 

'AVithout your Father falleth to the ground.' 



PERDITA. 

T GO beyond the commandment.^ So be it. Then mine 

be the blame, 
The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be 

run, — 
I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with 

her claim, 
And what I have rued I shall rue ; for what I have done 

— I have done. 

Ilush, hush ! for what of the future ; you cannot the base 

exalt, 
There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so 

sheer incline ; 
I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this 

mother's fault. 
Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine. 



224 PERDITA. 

' Will I tell you aW^ ' Sol this, e'en this, will I do for 

your great love't sake ; 
Thiuk what it costs. ' Then let there he silence — silence 

you 'II count c onsentJ 
No, and no, and foi ever no : rather to cross and to 

break, 
And to lower your passion I speak — that other it was 1 

meant. 



That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, 
nor April days, 

Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded — O (but I prom- 
ised this) — 

He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that 
praise ; 

And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with 
a kiss. 



He led me away — O, how i3oignant sweet the nightin- 
gale's note that noon — 

I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my 
sake was fair, 

And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from 
the soul of June, 

And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue 
was bare. 



PERDITA. 225 

When I looked up, he said : ' Love, fair love ! O rather 

look ill these eyes 
With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stei)ped 

the valley unshod ' — 
For One might be looking through it, he thought, and he 

would not in any wise 
I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the 

gaze of God. 



Ah me ! I was happy — yes, I was ; 't is fit you should 

know it all, 
While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough 

winds troubled me not ; 
I heard them moan without in the forest ; heard the chill 

rains fall — 
But I thought my place was sheltered with him — I 

forgot, I forgot. 



After came news of a wife ; I think he was glad I should 

know, 
To stay my pleading, ' take me to church and give me 

my ring ' ; 
' You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I 

prayed him so. 
For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter 

thing. 

VOL. II. — 16 



226 PERDITA. 

But my dream was over me still, — I was half beguiled, 
And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone. 
And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little 

child. 
And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had 

done. 

'You will give me the name of ivife. You will give me a 

ring.' — O peace ! 
You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine ; 
You will go to your people at home. There will be rest 

and release ; 
The bitter now will be sweet full soon — ay, and denial 

divine. 

But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite 

cast away ; 
I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on 

my gown. 
There was dust in the lane, I remember ; prints of feet in 

it lay, 
And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the 

down. 

I was going nowhere — I wandered up, then turned and 

dared to look back. 
Where low in the valley he careless and quiet — quiet 

and careless slept. 



PERDITA. 227 

' Did I love him yet'}'' I loved liim. Ay, my heart on 

the uphmd track 
Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I 

walked, aud I wept. 

I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, 

Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need ; 

I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins 

and lace 
I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed. 

I cried, ' 'T is the way of the world, would I had never 

been born ! ' 
* Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense 

to see 
For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me 

to scorn, 
' The world is made the- world that it is by fools like you, 

like me.' 

Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the 

cold stone. 
But she took me in ; and while I lay sick I knew I was 

lost, 
Lost with the man I loved, w lost without hnn, making 

my moan 
Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest 

tossed, lost, lost ! 



228 PERDITA. 

How am I fallen : — we that might make of the world 

what we would, 
Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah ! ' you would raise 

me again ? ' 
No true heart, — you cannot, you cannot, and all in my 

soul that is good 
Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is 

for ever in vain. 

For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind, 
I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have 

lowered the light ; 
But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind. 
He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he 

might. 

For he was let to do it ; I let him and left his soul 

To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance 

of love's despairs, 
Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their 

heads with dole. 
And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be 

healed, — but what of theirs. 

'T was fit you sliould hear it all — What, tears ? they com- 
fort me ; now you will go, 

Nor wrong your life for tlie nought you call ' a pair of 
beautiful eyes,' 



PERDITA. 229 

' I will not say I love yoii.'' Truly I will not, no. 
' Will, I pity you ? ' Ay, but the pang will be short, you 
shall wake and be wise. 

' S]mII we meet 2 We shall meet on the other side, but 

not before. 
I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of the 

NAME, 

And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that 

shore, 
In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow 

nor shame. 

Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white 

lamb, 
I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last. 
But there 's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, 
And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the 

past. 



SERIOUS POEMS, 



SONGS AND POEMS 



LOVE AND CHILDHOOD. 




LETTEES ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

(First of a Series.) 

A parson's letter to a young poet. 

HEY said " Too late, too late, the work is clone ; 
Great Homer sang of glory and strong men 
And that fair Greek whose fault all these long 
years 
Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can ; 
For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, 
For yet the world waits in the victor's tent 
Daily, and sees an old man honourable. 
His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears 
Awestruck Achilles ; sighing, ' I have endured. 
The like whereof no soul hath yet endured. 
To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.' " 

They said : " We, rich by him, are rich by more ; 

One ^schylus found Avatchfires on a hill 

That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work ; 

When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light 

And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came 

And marked her till she span off all her thread. 



234 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

"0, it is late, good sootii, to cry for more : 

The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear! 

A Tuscan afterward discovered steps 

Over the line of life in its mid- way ; 

He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love 

Safe at her singing, and he left his foes 

In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled 

Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds. 

" Who may inherit next or who shall match 

The Swan of Avon and go float with him 

Down the long river of life aneath a sun 

Not veiled, and high at noon 1 — the river of life 

That as it ran reflected all its lapse 

And rippling on the plumage of his breast 1 

" Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, 

Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty 

Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, 

Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. 

Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, 

Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant 

As they behold. 

" The mother-glowworm broods 
Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg 
And long before they come to life they shine — 
The mother-age broods on her shining thought 
That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes 
Her poet son, and lo you, he can see 
The shining, and lae takes it to his breast 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 235 

And fashions for it wings that it may fly 
And show its sweet light in the dusky world. 

" Mother, Mother of our dusk to-day, 

What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee 1 

Lapsed water cannot flow above its source; 

'The kid must browse,^" they said, " 'where she is tied.''" 

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. 
What ! wilt thou lot thy mother sit ashamed 
And crownless] — Set the crown on her fair head : 
She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee 
"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear. 
To him the mother cries "Thoii art the man." 

She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low — 
" Methought the men of war were even as gods 
The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes 
Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls 
That buried it ; from carved and curious homes 
Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, 
Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, 
They flung it. Give us, give us better gods 
Than these that drink with blood upon their hands. 
For I repent me that I worshipped them. 
that there might be yet a going up ! 
to forget — and to begin again ! " 

Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs 

Who cry "The work is done'"? What though to thee. 

Thee only, should the utterance shape itself 



236 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

" to forget, and to begin again," 
Only of thee be heard as that keen cry 
Eending its way from spme distracted heart 
That yields it and so breaks 1 Yet list the cry 
Begin for her again, and learn to sing ; 
But first, in all thy learning learn to be. 
Is life a field 1 then plough it up — re-sow 
With worthier seed — Is life a ship] heed 
The southing of thy stars — Is life a breath? 
Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, 
Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul. 

It may be God's first work is but to breathe 

And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air 

That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. 

A little space is measured out to us 

Of His long leisure ; breathe and grow therein, 

For life, alas ! is short, and " When we die 

It is not for a little whiles 

They said, 
"The work is done," and is it therefore done? 
Speak rather to thy mother thus : "All-fair, 
Lady of ages, beautiful To-day 
And sorrowful To-day, thy children set 
The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss 
Is like to be the loss of all : we hear 
Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain 
Loss of high leadership, but where is he 
That shall be great enough to lead thee now 1 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 237 

Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. 

Where 1 Thou hast wakened as a child in the night 

And found thyself alone. The stars have set, 

There is great darkness, and the dark is void 

Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh 

And sing thee thy new songs "J Whom wilt thou love 

And lean on to break silence worthily — 

Discern the beauty in thy goings — feel 

The glory of thy yearning, — thy self-scorn 

Flatter to dim oblivion with a smile — 

Own thy great want, that knew not its great namel 

O who shall make to thee mighty amends 

For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, 

Thyself and Him 1 Behold Him, He is near : 

God is thy Poet now. 

'' A King sang once 
Long years ago ' My soul is athirst for God, 
Yea for the living God ' — thy thirst and his 
Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands 
Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough. 
Nor love, nor learning, — Death is not enough 
Even to them, happy, who forecast new life ; 
But give us now and satisfy us now. 
Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, 
Give us now, now, to be at one with Hiui." 

Would I had words— I have not words for her, 
Only for thee ; and thus I tell them out : 
For every man the world is made afresh ; 



238 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

To God both it and he are young. There are 
Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night 
" Where is the kingdom 1 Give it us to-day. 
We would be here with God, not there with God. 
Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, 
And let our souls sink deeper into Thee " — 
There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest 
They know not why, of good they know not what. 

The unknown life, and strange its stii'ring is. 

The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it 

And yearning only for its mother's breast 

Feeds thus the unheeded thing — and as for thee. 

That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, 

And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, 

Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy. 

One draught of passionate peace — but wilt thou know 

The other name of joy, the better name 

Of peace 1 It is thy Father's name. Thy life 

Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, 

Even the living God. 

But "No," thou sayest, 
" My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet 
Tread a dry desert where there is no way 
Nor water. I look back, and deep through time 
The old words come but faintly up the track 
Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent. 
The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved 
If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 239 

But long ago He died, and long ago 
Is gone." 

He is not dead, He cannot go. 
Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, 
Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down 
Pure from his snow ; and warmed of tropic heat 
Hiding himself in verdure : then at last 
In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt. 
But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast 
And daily at his source the stream is born. 
Go up — go mark the whiteness of the snow — 
Thy faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, 
Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. 
The living God is new, and He is near. 

What need to look behind thee and to sigh 1 
When God left speaking He went on before 
To draw men after, following up and on ; 
And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow ; 
Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait. 
A Father and not wait ! — He waited long 
For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long 
And will not count the time. There are no dates 
In His tine leisure. 

Speak then as a son : 
" Father, I come to satisfy Tliy love 
With mine, for I had lield Tlieo as remote, 
The background of tlie stars — -Time's yesterday — 
Illimitable Absence. Xow my lieart 



240 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me 
Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so ] 
Then for all love that was, I thank Thee, God, 
It IS and yet shall bide. And I have part 
In all, for in Thine image I was made, 
To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. 
If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, 
And man be God-like, God is like to man. 

" Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard 
To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form 
Bled 'neath a thorny crown — but since indeed, 
For kindred's sake and likeness. Thou dost thirst 
To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, 
My soul shall answer ' Thou art what I want : 
I am athirst for God, the living God.' " 

Then straightway flashes up athwart the words : 
" And if I be a son I am very far 
From my great Father's house ; I am not clean. 
I have not always willed it should be so. 
And the gold of life is rusted with my tears." 

It is enough. He never said to men, 

" Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought — 

Beautiful children, well-beloved sons. 

Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons 

All night, and sighing because star multitudes 

Fainted away as to a glittering haze. 

And sparkled here and there like silver wings, 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 241 

Confounding them with nameless, numberless, 

Unbearable, line flocks 1 It is not well 

For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far 

To the unimaginable steeps on high 

Trembling and seeking God ] Yet now come home, 

Cry, cry to Him : "I cannot search Thee out. 

But Thou and I must meet. come, come down, 

Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. 

Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, 

And thou shalt mourn to Him, ** Unclean, unclean," 

But never more " I will to have it so." 

From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love 

To long for, pureness to desire, a mount 

Of consecration it were good to scale. 

Look you, it is to-day as at the first. 

When Adam tirst was 'ware his new-made eyes 

And opened them, behold the light! And breath 

Of God was misting yet about his mouth. 

Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth 

And was a part of light ; also he saw 

Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve — 

Eve was the child of midnight and of sleep. 

Lo, in the dark God led her to his side ; 

It may be in the dark she heard him breathe 

Before God woke him. And she knew not light. 

Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, 

A warmth that clasped her ; but the stars were out, 

And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them. 

VOL. II. — 16 



242 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

Haply she thought that always it was night ; 

Haply he, whispering to her in that reach 

Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart 

A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it 

To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want 

Kin to his own ; and as he longed to gaze 

On his new fate, the gracious mystery 

His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, 

After the light that never she had known. 

So doth each age walk in the light beheld, 
Nor think on light, if it be light or no ; 
Then comes the night to it, and in the night 
Eve. 

The God-given, the most beautiful 
Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake ; 
Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt. 
The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, 
Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, 
A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent 
To draw the soul away from valley clods ; 
Made from itself, yet now a better self — 
Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire 
Let down into a careless breast ; a pang 
Sweeter than healing that cries out with it 
For light all light, and is beheld at length — 
The morning dawns. 

Were not we born to light ? 
Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints 
Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair ; 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 243 

Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, 

Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth, 

And flocks of them flew white about the world. 

And dreams were like to ships that floated us 

Far out on silent floods, apart from earth, 

From life — so far that we could see their lights 

In heaven — and hear the everlasting tide, 

All dappled with that fair reflected gold, 

Wash up against the city wall, and sob 

At the dark bows of vessels that drew on 

Heavily freighted with departed souls 

To whom did spirits sing ; but on that song 

Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, 

Impose the harsh captivity of words. 

Afterward waking, sweet was early air. 

Full excellent was morning : whether deep 

The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail 

Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore. 

And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews 

And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet 

The fallen Avhiteness, making shrill the storm ; 

Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hunimcil 

The mill atween its bowering maple trees. 

And cluirned the leaping beck that reared, and urged 

A diamond-dripping wheel. 

The happy find 
Equality of beauty everywhere 
To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, 



244 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways 
Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight 
Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew 
And the melted mist of morning, when at watch 
Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, 
Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, 
Or dart athwart his view as August stars 
Shoot and are out — while gracefully pace on 
The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree 
To clear the velvet from their budded horns. 
There is no want, both God and life are kind ; 
It is enough to hear, it is enough 
To see ; the pale wide barley-field they love, 
And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon 
That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. 
So in the rustic hamlet at high noon 
The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep 
To hide her head in turrets browned of moss 
That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks 
And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliflf 
While far below the northern diver feeds ; 
She having ended settling while she sits, 
As vessels water-logged that sink at sea 
And quietly into the deep go down. 

It is enough to wake, it is enough 
To sleep : — With God and time he leaves the rest. 
But on a day death on the doorstep sits 
Waiting, or like a veiled woman walks 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 245 

Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path 
The splendid passion-flower love unfolds 
Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know 
Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, 
The kiss of pity with denial given, 
The crown and blossom of accomplishment. 
Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, 
And tempts him with an apple to know all. 

So, — Shut the gate ; the story tells itself 

Over and over ; Eden must be lost 

If after it be won. He stands at fault, 

Not knowing at all how this should be -r- he feels 

The great bare barrenness o' the outside world. 

He thinks on Time and what it has to say ; 

He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand, 

Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on 

To cover the day-king in his eclipse, 

And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all 

Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul. 

The dark, but not Orion sparkling there 
With his best stars ; the dark, but not yet Eve. 
And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy 
Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon, 
Fast prisoned in his heart ; he hath not learned 
The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, 
And all the glad delights that boyhood loved 
Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still. 



246 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

Ah ! they must sleep — " The luill can grind no more 
With water that hath passed." Let it run on. 
For he liath caught a wliisper in the night ; 
This old inheritance in darkness given, 
The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, 
Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake, 
Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, 
Exultant for expansion and release, 
And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, 
Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish, 
Life of his life, the soul's immortal child 
That is to him as Eve. 

He cannot win, 
JSTor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, 
With all the watch, tender, impetuous. 
That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels 
Inlinite things ; but yet the night is full 
Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. 
Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, 
Or wherefore was he born 1 

O he was born 
To Avish — then turn away : — to wish again 
And half forget his wish for earthlier joy ; 
He draws the net to land that brings red gold ; 
His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, 
And learning hath him at her feet ; — and love, 
The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, 
Tov;ches the ruddiest veins in his young heart. 
Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 247 

Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, 
Fainting away for the remorseless all 
Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before. 
But never in his arms. Then pity comes. 
Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, 
Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal. 
But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, 
Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares 
Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence ; 
But who can stir the weighty world ; or who 
Can drink a sea of tears ? 

love, and life, 
world, and can it be that this is all ? 
Leave him to tread expectance underfoot ; 
Let him alone to tame down his great hope 
Before it breaks his heart : " Give me my share 
That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. 
This that I bear, what is it? — me no less 
It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." 

There is but halting for the wearied foot. 
The better way is hidden ; faith hath failed — 
One stronger far than reason mastered her. 
It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. 
The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry. 
Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, 
Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes. 
Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. 
Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate 



248 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

And go to it from time to time with tears, 

What lies there] A dead Christ enswathed ami coKl, 

A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth 

Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed 

With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, 

The love of God that daily dies ; — to them 

That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. 

mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, 
Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet 
Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew 
The immortal want of morning ; but thy day 
Dawned and was over, and thy children know 
Contentment never, nor continuance long. 
For even thus it is with them : the day 
Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night 
Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. 

A soul in want and restless and bereft 
To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie ] 
Saying, " I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, 
Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. 

1 do submit me to Thy sovereign will 
That I full oft should hunger and not have, 
And vainly yearn after the perfect good, 
Gladness and peace " ] 

Jfo, rather dare think thus : 
" Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time, 
My Likeness was apparent in high heaven. 



LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 249 

Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place 

Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands 

Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths 

And ordered lives. Then afterward they said, 

Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked 

Hitherto should not henceforth work alone, 

* Let us make man ; ' and God did look upon 

That Divine "Word which was the form of God, 

And it became a thought before the event. 

There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech, 

God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived. 

" And I was in a garden, and I fell 
Through envy of God's evil son, but Love 
"Would not be robbed of me for ever — Love 
For my sake passed into humanity. 
And there for my first Father won me home. 
How should I rest tlien 1 I have not gone home ; 
I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly. 
While my great Father — Father — my God, 
What shall I do r' 

Ay, T will dare tliink thus : 
" I cannot rest because He dotli not rest 
In whom I have my being. This is God — 
INEy soul is conscious of His wondrous wish. 
And my heart's hunger doth but answer His 
Whose thought has met with mine. 

" I have not all ; 
He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks. 



250 LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING. 

]\[y want is God's desire to give, — He yearns 
To add Himself to life and so for aye 
Make it enough." 

A thought by night, a wish 
After the morning, and behold it dawns 
Pathetic in a still solemnity. 
And mighty words are said for him once more, 
" Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard, 
And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise. 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

THERE are who give themselves to work for men, 
To raise the lost, to gatlier orphaned babes 
And teach them, pitying of their mean estate, 
To feel for misery, and to look on crime 
With ruth, till they forget that they themselves 
Are of the race, themselves among the crowd 
Under the sentence and outside the gate. 
And of the family and in the doom. 
Cold is the world ; they feel how cold it is, 
And wish that they could warm it. Hard is life 
For some. They would that they could soften it ; 
And, in the doing of their work, they sigh 
As if it was their choice and not their lot ; 
And, in the raising of their prayer to God, 
They crave his kindness for the world he made, 
Till they, at last, forget that he, not they. 
Is the true lover of man. 



Now, in an ancient town, that had sunk low, — 
Trade having drifted from it, while there stayed 
Too many, that it erst had fed, beliind, — 
There walked a curate once, at earl}' day. 



252 THE MONITIONS OF TILE UNSEEN. 

It was the summer-time ; but summer air 
Came never, in its sweetness, down that dark 
And crowded alley, — never reached the door 
Whereat he stopped, — the sordid, shattered door. 

He paused, and, looking right and left, beheld 
Dirt and decay, the lowering tenements 
That leaned toward each other ; broken panes 
Bidging with rags, and grim with old neglect ; 
And reeking hills of formless refuse, heaped 
To fade and fester in a stagnant air. 
But he thought nothing of it : he had learned 
To take all wretchedness for granted, — he, 
Eeared in a stainless home, and radiant yet 
With the clear hues of healthful English youth. 
Had learned to kneel by beds forlorn, and stoop 
Under foul lintels. He could touch, with hand 
Unshrinking, fevered fingers ; he could hear 
The language of the lost, in haunt and den, — 
So dismal, that the coldest passer-by 
Must needs be sorry for them, and, albeit 
They cursed, would dare to speak no harder words 
Than these, — " God help them ! " 

Ay ! a learned man 
The curate in all woes that plague mankind, — 
Too learned, for he was but young. His heart 
Had yearned till it was overstrained, and now 
He — plunged into a narrow slough unblest, 
Had struggled with its deadly waters, till 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 233 

His own liead had gone under, and he took 
Small joy in work he could not look to aid 
Its cleansing. 

Yet, by one right tender tie,, 
Hope held him yet. The fathers coarse and dull, 
Vile mothers hard, and boys and girls profane. 
His soul drew back from. He had worked for them, — 
Work without joy : but, in his heart of hearts. 
He loved the little children ; and, whene'er 
He heard their prattle innocent, and heard 
Their tender voices lisping sacred words 
That he had taught them, — in the cleanly calm 
Of decent school, by decent matron held, — 
Then would he say, " I shall have pleasure yet, 
In these." 

But now, when he pushed back that door 
And mounted up a flight of ruined stairs. 
He said not that. He said, " Oh ! once I thought 
The little children would make bright for me 
The crown they wear who have won many souls 
For righteousness ; but oh, this evil place ! 
Hard lines it gives them, <Jbld and dirt abhorred, — 
Hunger and nakedness, in lieu of love. 
And blows instead of care. 

" And so they die. 
The little children that I love, — they die, — 
They turn their wistful faces to the wall, 
And slip away to God." 

"With that, his hand 



254 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He laid upon a latch and lifted it, 

Looked in full quietly, and entered straight. 

What saw he there ? He saw a three-years child, 

That lay a-dying on a wisp of straw 

Swept up into a corner. O'er its brow 

The damps of death were gathering : all alone, 

TJncared for, save that by its sitle was set 

A cup, it waited. And the eyes had ceased 

To look on things at hand. He thought they gazed 

In wistful wonder, or some faint surmise 

Of coming change, — as though they saw the gate 

Of that fair land that seems to most of us 

Very far off. 

When he beheld the look, 
He said, " I knew, I knew liow this would be ! 
Another ! Ay, and but for drunken blows 
And dull forgetfulness of infant need, 
This little one had lived." And thereupon 
The misery of it wrought upon him so. 
That, unaware, he wept. Oh ! then it was 
That, in the bending of his manly head. 
It came between the child and that whereon 
He gazed, and, when the curate glanced again, 
Those dying eyes, drawn back to earth once more, 
Looked up into his own, and smiled. 

He drew 
More near, and kneeled beside the small frail thing. 
Because the lips were moving ; and it raised 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 255 

Its baby hand, and stroked away his tears, 

And whispered, " Master ! master ! " and so died. 

Now, in that town there was an ancient church, 
A minster of old days which these had turned 
To parish uses : there the curate served. 
It stood within a quiet swarded Close, 
Sunny and still, and, though it was not far 
From those dark courts where poor humanity 
Struggled and swarmed, it seemed to wear its own 
Still atmosphere about it, and to hold 
That old-world calm within its precincts pure 
And that grave rest which modern life foregoes. 

When the sad curate, rising from his knees. 
Looked from the dead to heaven, — as, unaware, 
Men do when they would track departed life, — 
He heard the deep tone of the minster-bell 
Sounding for service, and he turned away 
So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind 
That dismal habitation, and came out 
In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard, 
He never marked it. Up the aisle he moved, 
AVith his own gloom about him; then came forth, 
And read before the folk grand words and calm, — 
Words full of hope ; but into his dull heart 
Hope came not. As one talketh in a dream, 
And dotli not mark the sense of his own words, 
He read ; and, as one walketh in a dream. 



256 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He after walked toward the vestment-room, 
And never marked the way he went by, — no, 
N"or the gray verger that before him stood. 
The great church-keys depending from his hand, 
Ready to follow him out and lock the door. 

At length, aroused to present things, but not 
Content to break the sequence of his thought, 
N"or ready for the working day that held 
Its busy course without, he said, " Good friend. 
Leave me the keys : I would remain a while." 
And, when the verger gave, he moved with him 
Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, 
And locked himself within the church alone. 
The minster-church was like a great brown cave, 
Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim 
With glorious gloom ; but, as the curate turned, 
Suddenly shone the sun, — and roof and walls, 
Also the clustering shafts from end to end. 
Were thickly sown all over, as it were. 
With seedling rainbows. And it went and came 
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up 
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings 
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, 
And dropped upon the curate as he passed. 
And covered his white raiment and his hair. 

Then did look down upon him from their place, 
High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 257 

And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns 

And capes of miniver ; and therewithal 

(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun 

Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, 

And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, 

A sombre glory as of rusted gold, 

Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, 

That made the floor a beauty and delight. 

Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough 

To have been wafted there the day th^ dropt 

On the flower-beds in heaven. 

The curate passed 
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think 
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself — 
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair 
With all the majesty that noble work 
And stainless manners give — did add his part 
To make it fairer. 

In among the knights 
That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute 
And palm of many a saint, — 'neath capitals 
Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve 
With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream 
Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers. 
And glad full-throated birds that sing up there 
Among the branches of the tree of life — 
Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, 
Shooting on high to enter into light. 
That swam aloft, — he took his silent way, 

VOL. II. — 17 



258 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

And in the southern transept sat him down, 
Covered his face, and thought. 

He said, " i^o pain, 
No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, 
Uoth stir witliin thee. Oh ! I would'there did : 
Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost 
I know not what. I see the heavens as lead : 
They tend no whither. Ah ! the world is bared 
Of her enchantment now : she is but earth 
And water. And, though much hath passed away, 
There may be more to go, I may forget 
The joy and fear that have been : there may live 
No more for me the fervency of hope 
Nor the arrest of wonder. 

"Once I said, 
' Content will wait on work, though work appear 
Unfruitful.' Now I say, ' Where is the good ? 
What is the good % ' A lamp when it is lit 
Must needs give light ; but I am like a man 
Holding his lamp in some deserted place 
Where no foot passeth. Must I trim my lamp, 
And ever painfully toil to keep it bright, 
When use for it is none 1 I must ; I will. 
Though God withhold my wages, I must work. 
And watch the bringing of my work to nought, — 
Weed in the vineyard through the heat o' the day. 
And, overtasked, behold the weedy jDlace 
Grow ranker yet in spite of me. 

"Oh! yet 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 259 

My meditated words are trodden down 
Like a little wayside grass. Castaway shells, 
Lifted and tossed aside by a plunging wave, 
Have no more force against it than have I 
Against the sweeping, weltering wave of life, 
That, lifting and dislodging me, drives on, 
And notes not mine endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He added more words like to these ; to wit. 
That it was hard to see the world so sad : 
He would that it were happier. It was hard 
To see the blameless overborne ; and hard 
To know that God, who loves the world, should yet 
Let it lie down in sorrow, when a smile 
From him would make it laugh and sing, — a word 
From him transform it to a heaven. Ho said, 
IMoreover, "When will this be done? ]\Iy life 
Hath not yet reached the noon, and I am tired ; 
And oh ! it may be that, uncomforted 
By foolish hope of doing good and vain 
Conceit of being useful, I may live. 
And it may he my duty to go on 
Working for years and years, for years and years." 

Rut, while the words were uttered, in his heart 
There dawned a vague aliirra. He was aware 
That somewhat touched him, and lie lifted up 
His face. " I am alone," the curate said, — 
" I think I am alone. What is it, tlien 1 



260 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

I am ashamed ! My raiment is not clean. 
My lips, — I am afraid they are not clean. 
My heart is darkened and nnclean. Ah me, 
To be a man, and yet to tremble so ! 
Strange, strange ! " 

And there was sitting at his feet- 
He could not see it plainly — at his feet 
A very little child. And, while the blood 
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it, 
Gazing, and, lo ! the loveliness from heaven 
Took clearer form and color. He beheld 
The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth, — • 
The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss, 
And perfect in possession. So it spoke, 
" My master ! " but he answered not a word ; 
And it went on : "I had a name, a name. 
He knew my name ; but here they can forget." 
The curate answered : " Nay, I know thee well. 
I love thee. Wherefore art thou come '< " It said, 
" They sent me ; " and he faltered, " Fold thy hand, 
most dear little one ! for on it gleams 
A gem that is so bright I cannot look 
Thereon." It said, "When I did leave this world, 
That was a tear. But that was long ago ; 
For I have lived among the happy folk, 
You wot of, ages, ages." Then said he, 
" Do they forget us, while beneath the palms 
They take their infinite leisure 1 " And, with eyes 
That seemed to nuise upon him, looking up 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 26] 

In peace the little child made answer, " Nay ; " 
And murmured, in the language that he loved, 
" How is it that his hair is not yet white ; 
For I and all the others have been long 
Waiting for him to come." 

"And was it long?" 
The curate answered, pondering. " Time being done, 
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense, 
In our to-come, of infinite extension 1 " 
Then said the child, " In heaven we children talk 
Of the great matters, and our lips are wise ; 
But here I can but talk with thee in Avords 
That here I knew." And therewithal, arisen. 
It said, " I pray you take me in your arms." 
Then, being afraid but willing, so he did ; 
And partly drew about the radiant child. 
For better covering its dread purity. 
The foldings of his gown. And he beheld 
Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light 
That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe, 
" Whiter than fuller of this world can white," 
That clothed its immortality. And so 
The trembling came again, and he was dumb, 
Repenting his uncleanness : and he lift 
His eyes, and all the holy place was full 
Of living things ; and some were faint and dim. 
As if they bore an intermittent life, 
Waxing and waning ; and they had no form, 
But drifted on like slowly trailM clouds. 



262 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye 

Apiece. And some, in guise of evil birds, 

Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks, 

And some were men-like, but their heads hung down ; 

And he said, " my God ! let me find grace 

Not to behold their faces, for I know 

They must be wicked and right terrible." 

But while he prayed, lo ! whispers ; and there moved 

Two shadows on the wall. He could not see 

The forms of them that cast them : he could see 

Only the shadows as of two that sat 

Upon the floor, where, clad in women's weeds, 

They lisped together. And he shuddered much : 

There was a rustling near him, and he feared 

Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch. 

" It is not great," quoth one, " the work achieved. 

We do, and we delight to do, our best : 

But that is little ; for, my dear," quoth she, 

" This tower and town have been infested long 

With angels." — " Ay," the other made reply, 

" I had a little evil-one, of late, 

That I picked up as it was crawling out 

0' the pit, and took and cherished in my breast. 

It would divine for me, and oft would moan, 

' Pray thee, no churches,' and it spake of this. 

But I was harried once, — thou know'st by whom, — 

And flsd in here ; and, when he followed me, 

I crouching by this pillar, he let down 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 263 

His hand, — being all too proud to send his eyes 

In its wake, • — and, plucking forth my tender imp, 

Flung it behind him. It went yelping forth ; 

And, as for me, I never saw it more. 

Much is against us, — very much : the times 

Are hard." She paused : her fellow took the word, 

Plaining on such as preach and them that plead. 

" Even such as haunt the yawning mouths of hell," 

Quoth she, " and pluck them back that run thereto." 

Then, like a sudden blow, there fell on him 

The utterance of his name. " There is no soul 

That I loathe more, and oftener curse. Woe's me, 

That cursing should be vain ! Ay, he will go 

Gather the sucking children, that are yet 

Too young for us, and watch and shelter them 

Till the strong Angels — pitiless and stern, 

But to them loving ever — sweep them in, 

By armsful, to the unapproachable fold. 

" We strew his path with gold : it will not lie. 
' Deal softly with him,' was the master's word. 
We brought him all delights : his angel came 
And stood between them and his eyes. They spend 
Much pains upon him, — keep him poor and low 
And unbeloved ; and thus he gives his mind 
To fill the fateful, the impregnable 
Child-fold, and sow on earth the seed of stars. 

" Oh ! hard is serving against love, — the love 
Of the Unspeakable ; for if we soil 



264 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

The souls He opeueth out a -washing-place j 
And if we grudge, and snatch away the bread, 
Then will He save by poverty, and gain 
By early giving up of blameless life ; 
And if we shed out gold, He even will save 
In spite of gold, — of twice-refinM gold." 

With that the curate set his daunted eyes 
To look upon the shadows of the fiends. 
He was made sure they could not see the child 
That nestled in his arms ; he also knew 
They were unconscious that his mortal ears 
Had new intelligence, which gave their speech 
Possible entrance through his garb of clay. 

He was afraid, yet awful gladness reached 
His soul : the testimony of the lost 
Upbraided him ; but while he trembled yet, 
The heavenly child had lifted up its head 
And left his arms, and on the marble floor 
Stood beckoning. 

And, its touch withdrawn, the place 
Was silent, empty ; all that swarming tribe 
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil. 
And shut into their separate world, were closed 
From his observance. He arose, and paced 
After the little child, — as half in fear 
That it would leave him, — till they reached a door ; 
And then said he, — but much distraught he spoke, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 265 

Laying his hand across the lock, — " Tliis door 
Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. 
Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven ] " 
It answered, " I will mount them." Then said he, 
" And I will follow." — " So thou shalt do well," 
The radiant thing replied, and it went up. 
And he, amazed, went after ; for the stairs, 
Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays 
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven, 
And hair whereon had smiled the light of God. 

With that, they, pacing on, came out at last 

Into a dim, weird place, — a chamber formed 

Betwixt the roofs : for you shall know that all 

The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine. 

Was covered with the dust of ages, laid 

Thick with those chips of stone which they had left 

Who wrought it ; but a high-pitched roof was reared 

Above it, and the western gable pierced 

With three long narrow lights. Great tie-beams loomed 

Across, and many daws frequented there. 

The starling and the sparrow littered it 

With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook ; 

And there was lifting up of wings, and there 

Was hasty exit when the curate came. 

But sitting on a beam and moving not 

For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves 

Bowing their heads, and cooing ; and the child 

Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight 



266 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth, 
A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought 
That language trembled on their innocent tongues, 
And floated forth in speech that man could hear. 
Then said the child, *' Yet touch, my master dear." 
And he let down his hand, and touched again ; 
And so it was. "But if they had their way," 
One turtle cooed, "how should this world go onl" 

Then he looked well upon them, as he stood 

Upright before them. They were feathered doves, 

And sitting close together; and tlieir eyes 

Were rounded with tlie rim tliat marks their kind. 

Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam, — 

JSTo phantoms they ; and soon the fellow-dove 

Made answer, " Nay they count themselves so wise, 

There is no task they shall be set to do 

But they will ask God why. What mean they so 1 

The glory is not in the task, but in 

The doing it for Him. What should he think, 

Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set 

Such noble work, and suffered to behold 

Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours 1 " 

With that the other leaned, as if attent : 

"I am not perfect, brother, in his thought." 

The mystic bird replied. " Brother, he saith, 

' But it is nought : the Avark is overhard.' 

Whose fault is that 1 God sets not overwork. 

He saith the world is sorrowful, and he 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 2G7 

Is therefore sorrowful. He cannot set 

The crooked straight ; — but who demands of him, 

brother, that he should ? What ! thinks he, then, 

His work is God's advantage, and his will 

More bent to aid the w^orld than its dread Lord's ] 

Nay, yet there live amongst us legions fair. 

Millions on millions, who could do right well 

What he must fail in ; and 'twas whispered me, 

That chiefly for himself the task is given, — 

His little daily task." With that he paused. 

Then said the other, preening its fair wing, 

" Men have discovered all God's islands now. 

And given them names ; whereof they are as proud. 

And deem themselves as great, as if their hands 

Had made them. Strange is man, and strange his pride. 

Now, as for us, it matters not to learn 

What and from whence we be : How should we tell 1 

Our world is undiscovered in these skies, 

Our names not whispered. Yet, for us and ours. 

What joy it is, — permission to come down. 

Not souls, as he, to the bosom of their God, 

To guide, but to their goal the winged fowls, 

His lovely lower-fashioned lives to help 

To take their forms by legions, fly, and draw 

With us the sweet, obedient, flocking things 

That ever hear our message reverently, 

And follow us far. How should they know their way. 

Forsooth, alone 1 Men say they fly alone ; 



268 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

Yet some have set on record, and averred, 
That they, among the flocks, had duly marked 
A leader." 

Then his fellow made reply : 
" They might divine the Maker's heart. Come forth, 
Fair dove, to find the flocks, and guide their wings, 
For Him that loveth them." 

With that, the child 
Withdrew his hand, and all their speech was done. 
He moved toward them, but they fluttered forth 
And fled into the sunshine. 

" I would fain," 
Said he, " have heard some more. Antl wilt thou go 1 " 
He added to the child, for this had turned. 
" Ay," quoth he, gently, " to the beggar's place ; 
For I would see the beggar in the porch." 

So they went down together to the door. 

Which, when the curate opened, lo ! without 

The beggar sat ; and he saluted him : 

" Good morrow, master." " Wherefore art thou here 1 " 

The curate asked : " it is not service time. 

And none will enter now to give thee alms." 

Then said the beggar, " I have hope at heart 

That I shall go to my poor house no more." 

" Art thou so sick that thou dost think to die 1 " 

The curate said. With that the beggar laughed, 

And under his dim eyelids gathered tears. 

And he was all a-tremble with a strange 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 269 

And moving exaltation. " Ay," quoth he, 
And set his face toward high heaven : " I think 
The blessing that I wait on must be near." 
Then said the curate, " God be good to tliee." 
And, straight, the little child put forth his hand. 
And touched him. " Master, master, hush ! 
You should not, master, speak so carelessly 
In this great presence." 

But the touch so wrought. 
That, lo ! the dazzled curate staggered back. 
For dread effulgence from the beggar's eyes 
Smote him, and from the crippled limbs shot forth 
Terrible lights, as pure long blades of fire. 
" Withdraw thy touch ! withdraw thy touch ! " he cried, 
" Or else shall I be blinded." Then the child 
Stood back from him ; and he sat down apart, 
Eecovering of his manhood : and he heard 
The beggar and the child discourse of things 
Dreadful for glory, till his spirits came 
Anew ; and, when the beggar looked on him. 
He said, " If I offend not, pray you tell 
"Who and what are you — I behold a face 
Marred with old age, sickness, and poverty, — 
A cripple with a staff, who long hath sat 
Begging, and ofttimes moaning, in the porch, 
For pain and for the wind's inclemency. 
What are you 1 " Then the beggar made reply, 
"I was a delegate, a living power; 
My work was bliss, for seeds were in my hand 



270 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

To plaut a new-made world. happy work ! 

It grew and blossomed ; but my dwelling-place 

Was far remote from heaven. I have not seen ; 

I knew no wish to enter there. But lo ! 

There went forth rumors, running out like rays, 

How some, that were of power like even to mine, 

Had made request to come and find a place 

Within its walls. And these were satisfied 

With promises, and sent to this far world 

To take the weeds of your mortality, 

And minister, and suffer grief and pain, 

And die like men. Then were they gathered in. 

They saw a face, and were accounted kin 

To Whom thou knowest, for he is kin to men. 

" Then I did wait ; and oft, at work, I sang, 

* To minister ! oh, joy, to minister ! ' 

And, it being known, a message came to me : 

' Whether is best, thou forest-planter wise, 

To minister to others, or that they 

Should minister to thee 1 ' Then, on my face 

Low lying, I made answer : ' It is best. 

Most High, to minister ; ' and thus came back 

The answer, — ' Choose not for thyself the best : 

Go down, and, lo ! my poor shall minister. 

Out of their poverty, to thee; shall learn 

Compassion by thy frailty ; and shall oft 

Turn back, when speeding home from Avork, to help 

Thee, weak and crippled, home. My little ones, 



THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 271 

Thou shalt importune for their slender mite, 
And pray, and move them that they give it up 
For love of Me.' " 

The curate answered him, 
" Art thou content, great one from afar ! 
If I may ask, and not offend ? " He said, 
" I am. Behold ! 1 stand not all alone, 
That I should think to do a perfect work. 
I may not wish to give ; for I have heard 
'Tis best for me that I receive. For me. 
God is the only giver, and His gift 
Is one." With that, the little child sighed out, 
" master ! master ! I am out of heaven 
Since noonday, and I hear them calling me. 
If you be ready, great one, let us go : — 
Hark ! hark ! they call." 

Then did the beggar lift 
His face to heaven, and utter forth a cry 
As of the pangs of death, and every tree 
Moved as if shaken by a sudden wind. 
He cried again, and there came forth a hand 
From some invisible form, which, being laid 
A little moment on the curate's eyes. 
It dazzled him with light that brake from it, 
So that he saw no more. 

"What shall Idol" 
The curate murmured, when he came again 
To himself and looked about him. "This is strange ! 
My thoughts are all astray ; and yet, methinks, 



272 THE MONITIONS OF THE UNSEEN. 

A -weight is taken from my heart. Lo ! lo ! 

There lieth at my feet, frail, wliite, and dead, 

The sometime beggar. He is happy now. 

There was a child ; but he is gone, and he 

Is also happy. I am glad to think 

I am not bound to make the wrong go right; 

But only to discover, and to do 

With cheerful heart, the work that God appoints. 

With that, he did compose, with reverent care. 
The dead ; continuing, " I will trust in Him, 
That he can hold his own ; and I will take 
His will, above the work He sendeth me. 
To be my chiefest good." 

Then went he forth, 
"I shall die early," thinking: "I am warned, 
By this fair vision, that I have not long 
To live." Yet he lived on to good old age; — 
Ay, he lives yet, and he is working still. 



It may be there are many in like case : 
They give themselves, and are in misery 
Because the gift is small, and doth not make 
The world by so much better as they fain 
Would have it. 'Tis a fault ; but, as for us. 
Let us not blame them. Maybe, 'tis a fault 
More kindly looked on by The Majesty 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 278 

Than our best virtues are. Why, what are we ? 
What have we given, and what have we desired 
To give, the world % 

There must be something wrong 
Look to it : let us mend our ways. Farewell. 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 



WHO pipes upon the long green hill, 
Where meadow grass is deep] 
The white Iamb bleats but followeth on — 

Follow the clean white sheep. 
The dear white lady in yon high tower, 
She hearkenetli in her sleep. 

All in long grass the piper stands, 

Goodly and grave is he ; 
Outside the tower, at dawn of day. 

The notes of his pipe ring free. 
A thought from his heart doth reach to hers 

"Come down, lady! to me." 

She lifts her head, she dons her gown : 
Ah ! the lady is fair ; 

VOL. II. — 18 



274 THE SHEPHERD LADY. 

She ties the girdle on her waist, 

And binds her flaxen hair, 
And down she stealeth, down and down, 

Down the turret stair. 



Behold him ! With the flock he wons 

Along yon grassy lea. 
" My shepherd lord, my shepherd love, 

"What wilt thou, then, with me? 
My heart is gone out of my breast. 

And foUoweth on to thee." 



" The white lambs feed in tender grass : 

With them and thee to bide, 
How good it were," she saith at noon ; 

" Albeit the meads are wide. 
Oh ! well is me," she saith when day 

Draws on to eventide. 

Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet ! 

Her tears drop down like rain. 
" Take now this crook, my chosen, ray fere, 

And tend the flock full fain ; 
Feed them, lady, and lose not one. 

Till I shall come again." 



THE SHEPHERD LADY. 275 

Eight soft her speech : " My will is thine, 

And my reward thy grace ! " 
Gone are his footsteps over the hill, 

Withdrawn his goodly face ; 
The mournful dusk begins to gather, 

The daylight wanes apace. 



On sunny slopes, ah ! long the lady 
Feedeth her flock at noon ; 

She leads it down to drink at eve 
Where the small rivulets croon. 

All night her locks are wet with dew, 
Her eyes outwatch the moon. 

Beyond the hills her voice is heard, 
She sings when light doth wane : 

" My longing heart is full of love, 
Nor shall my watch be vain. 

My shepherd lord, I see him not, 
Eut he will come a^ain." 



276 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 



POEMS 

Writtkn on the Deaths of Three Lovely Children 
WHO were taken from their Parents within a Month 
of one another. 



HENEY, 
aged eight years. 

YELLOW leaves, how fast they flutter — woodland 
hollows thickly strewing, 
Wliere the Avan October sunbeams scantly in the mid- 
day wdn, 
While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened 
hues imbuing 

All without and all within ! 

All within ! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round 
their dwelling 
Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and 
burdened sighs ; — 
Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your motlier's bosom 
swelling, 

Fast as tears that dim her eyes. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREX. 277 

Life is fraught witli many clianges, checked with sorrow 
and mutation, 
But no grief it over hghtened such a truth before to 
know : — 
I behold them — father, mother — as they seem to con- 
tempkition, 

Only three short weeks ago ! 

Saddened for the morrow's parting — up the stairs at 
midniglit stealing — 
As with cautious foot we glided past the children's 
open door, — 
"Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms 
at last revealing, 

" Kiss them in their sleep once mcn-e." 

You were sleeping, little Heiiry, with your eyelids scarcely 
closing, 
Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms 
entwined : — 
And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their 
reposing 

By the movements of the mind ! 

And your niotlier smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping 
treasures numbered, 
Whispering fondly — " He is dreaming " — as you 
turned upon your bed — 
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as 
you slumbered, 

With his hand upon your head ! 



278 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing'^ ]So ! 
he never 
Heard afar the summons uttered — "Come up hither" 
— Never knew 
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, 
And for ever in their view. 

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us. 
Shrouding wings — majestic beings — hidden by this 
earthly veil — 
Such as we have called on, saying, " Praise the Lord, 
Ananias, 

Azarias and Misael ! " 

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned 
Spirits taught him, 
To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him 
to their will 1 
While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams 
tliey may have brought him, 

When at midnight all was still 1 

Father ! Mother ! must you leave him on his bed, but not 
to slumber] 
Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but 
not to pray? 
When you count your children over, must you tell a dif- 
ferent number, 

Since that happier yesterday] 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 279 

Father ! Mother ! weep if need be, since this is a " time " 
for weeping, 
Comfort comes not for the calHng, grief is never argued 
down — 
Coklly sounds the admonition, " Why lament ] in better 
keeping 

Eests the child than in your own." 

" Truth indeed ! but, oh ! compassion ! Have you sought 
to scan my sorrow 1 " 
(Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that 
common tale) 
" Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling 
borrow 

Even a tone that might avail 1 

" Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm 
affection % 
Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond 
words to combine? 
Surely no ! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection 
Of the care that burdens mine ! " 

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your 
thoughts shall wander, 
Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless 
reveries. 
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you 
ponder 

From its jilace upon your knees — 



280 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful 
wonder, 
Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no 
longer here 1 
Is it so, my little Henry 1 Are we set so far asunder 
Who were wont to be so near ? " 

"While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened 
shades are meeting, 
To itself the heart shall answer, " He shall come to me 
no more : 
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice 
entreating 

For admission at my door." 

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are 
dwelling, 
^Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features 
know ; 
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad 
hearts to be telling, 

" Daylight breaketh, let me go ! " 

Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul 
awaketh — 
What though night should close around us, dim and 
dreary to the view — 
Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that 
morning breaketh 

Into endless day for you ! 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 281 
SAMUEL, 

AGED NINE YEARS. 

They have left you, little Henry, Imt they have not left 

you lonely — 
Brothers' hearts so knit together could not, might not 

separate dwell, 

Fain to seek you in the mansions far away — One lingered 

only 

To bid those behind farewell ! 

Gentle Boy ! — His childlike nature in most guileless 
form was moulded. 
And it may be that his spirit woke in glory unaware, 
Since so calmly he resigned it, with his hands still meekly 
folded. 

Having said his evening prayer. 

Or — if conscious of that summons — "Speak, O Lord, 
Thy servant heareth " — 
As one said, whose name they gave him, might his 
"willing answer be, 
"Here am I" — like him replying — "At Thy gates my 
soul appeareth, 

For behold Thou calledst me ! " 

A deep silence — utter silence, on his earthly home de- 
scendeth : — 



282 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

Keacling, playing, sleeping, waking — lie is gone, and 
few remain ! 
" the loss ! " — - they utter, weeping — every voice its 
echo lendeth — 

" the loss ! " — But, the gain ! 

On that tranquil shore his spirit was vouchsafed an early 
landing, 
Lest the toils of crime should stain it, or the thrall of 
guilt control — 
Lest that "wickedness should alter the yet simple under- 
standing, 

Or deceit beguile his soul ! " 

" Lay not up on earth thy treasure " — they have read 
that sentence duly. 
Moth and rust shall fret thy riches — earthly good hath 
swift decay — 
" Even so," each heart replieth — " As for me, my riches 
truly 

Make them wings and flee away ! " 

"0 my riches! — my children! — dearest part of hfe 

and being. 
Treasures looked to for the solace of this life's declining 

years, — 
Were our voices cold to hearing — or our faces cold to 

seeing, 

Tliat ye loft us to our tears 1 " 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 283 

" We iulierit conscious sileuce, ceasing of some merry 
laughter, 
And the hush of two sweet voices — (healing sounds 
for spirits bruised ! ) 
Of the tread of joyous footsteps in the patliway following 
after, 

Of two names no longer used ! " 

Question for them, little Sister, in your sweet and childish 
fashion — 
Search and seek them, Baby Brother, with your calm 
and asking eyes — ■ 
Dimpled lips that fixil to utter fond appeal or sad compas- 
sion, 

Mild regret or dim surprise ! 

Tliere are two tall trees above you, by the high east win- 
dow growing. 
Underneath them, slumber sweetly, lapt in silence deep, 
serene ; 
Save, when pealing in the distance, organ notes towards 
you flowing 

Echo — with a pause between ! 

And that pause? — a voice shall fill it — tones that blessed 
you daily, nightly. 
Well beloved, but not sufficing, Sleepers, to awake you 
now. 



284 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

Though so near he stand, tliat shadows from j^our trees 
may tremble liglitly 

On his book and on liis brow ! 



Sleep then ever ! Neither singing of sweet birds shall 
break your slumber, 
Neither fall of dew, nor sunshine, dance of leaves, nor 
drift of snow. 
Charm those dropt lids more to open, nor the tranquil 
bosoms cumber 

With one care for things below! 

It is something, the assurance, that i/ou ne'er shall feel 
like sorrow, 
"Weep no past and dread no future — know not sigliing, 
feel not pain — 
Nor a day that looketh forward to a mournfuller to- 
morrow — 

" Clouds returning after rain ! " 

No, far off, the daylight breaketh. in its beams each soul 
awaketh : 
"What though clouds," they sigh, "be gathered dark 
and stormy to the view, 
Though the light our eyes forsaketh, fresh and sweet 
behold it breaketh 

Into endless day for you ! " 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 285 

KATIE, AGED EIVE YEARS. 
(asleep in the daytime.) 

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden liglit the 
meadow steepeth, 
And the last October roses daily wax more pale and 
fair; 
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one 
who sleepeth 

With a sunbeam on her hair. 

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one 
that dreameth. 
And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that 
may not speak ; 
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory 
gleameth 

On the sainted brow and cheek. 

There is silence ! They who watch her, speak no word of 
grief or wailing. 
In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and can- 
not cease, 
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, 
and hope be failing, 

Tliey, like Aaron, '• hold their peace." 



286 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

While they gaze on her, the deep bell with its long slow 
pauses soundeth ; 
Long they hearken — father — mother — -love has noth- 
ing more to say : 
Beating time to feet of Angels leading her where love 
aboundeth 

Tolls the heavy bell this day. 

Still in silence to its tolling they count over all her mect- 
ness 
To lie near their hearts and soothe them in all sorrows 
and all fears ; 
Her short life lies spread before them, but they cannot tell 
her sweetness, 

Easily as tell her years. 

Only daughter — Ah ! how fondly Thought around that 
lost name lingers, 
Oft when lone your mother sitteth, she shall weep and 
droop her head, 
She shall mourn her baby-sempstress, with those imitative 
fingers. 

Drawing out her aimless thread. 

In your father's Future cometh many a sad uncheered 
to-morrow, 
But in sleep shall three fair faces heavenly-calm tow- 
ards him lean — 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 287 

Like a threefold cord shall draw him through the weari- 
ness of sorrow, 

Nearer to the tilings nuseen. 

With the closing of your eyelids close the dreams of ex- 
pectation, 
And so ends the fairest chapter in the records of their 
way: 
Therefore — thou God most holy — God of rest and 
consolation, 

Be Thou near to them this day ! 

Be Thou near, when they shall nightly, by the bed of 
infant brothers. 
Hear their soft and gentle breathing, and shall bless 
them on their knees ; 
And shall think how coldly falleth the white moonlight 
on the others, 

In their bed beneath the trees. 

Be Thou near, when they, they only, bear those faces in 
remembrance. 
And the number of their children strangers ask them 
witli a smile ; 
And when other childlike faces touch them by the strong 
resemblance 

To those turned to them erewhile. 

Bo Thou near, each chastened Spirit for its course and 
conflict nerving. 



288 ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN. 

Let Thy voice say, "Father — mother — lo ! thy treas- 
ures live above ! 
Now be strong, be strong, no longer cumbered over much 
with serving 

At the shrine of human love." 

Let them sleep ! In course of ages e'en the Holy House 
shall crumble. 
And the broad and stately steeple one day bend to its 
decline. 
And high arches, ancient arches bowed and decked in 
clothing humble, 

Creeping moss shall round them twine. 

Ancient arches, old and hoary, sunny beams shall glim- 
mer through them, 
And invest them with a beauty we would fain they 
should not share, 
And the moonlight slanting down them, the white moon- 
light shall imbue them 

With a sadness dim and fair. 

Then the soft green moss shall wrap you, and the world 
shall all forget you, 
Life, and stir, and toil, and tumult unawares shall pass 
you by; 
Generations come and vanish : but it shall not grieve nor 
fret you, 

That they sin, or that they sigh. 



ON THE DEATHS OF THREE CHILDREN- 289 

And the world, grown old in sinning, shall deny her tirst 
beginning, 
And think scorn of words which whisper how that all 
must pass away ; 
Time's arrest and intermission shall account a vain tradi- 
tion, 

And a dream, the reckoning day ! 

Till His blast, a blast of terror, shall awake in shame and 
sadness 
Faithless millions to a vision of the failing earth and 
skies, 
And more sweet than song of Angels, in their shout of 
joy and gladness, 

Call the dead in Christ to rise ! 

Then, by One Man's intercession, standing clear from their 
transgression. 
Father — mother — you shall meet them fairer than 
they were before. 
And have joy with the Eedeemed, joy ear hath not heard 
heart dreamed. 

Ay for ever — evermore ! 

VOL 11. — 19 



290 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 



THE SNOWDEOP MONUMENT (IN LICHFIELD 
CATHEDRAL). 



M 



ARVELS of sleep, grown cold ! 
Who hath not longed to fold 
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, 
Those cherub forms that lie. 
With none to watch them nigh. 
Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss 1 

What ! they are left alone 

All night with graven stone, 
Pillars and arches that above them meet ; 

While through those windows high 

The journeying stars can spy, 
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet 1 

cold ! yet look again, 

There is a wandering vein 
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie. 

Let her rapt dreamy smile 

The wondering heart beguile. 
That almost thinks to hear a calm contented sigh. 

What silence dwells between 
Those severed lips serene ! 



THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 291 

The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. 

What trance-Hke peace is shed 

On her reclining head, 
Aud e'en on listless feet what languor of repose ! 

Angels of joy and love 

Lean softly from above 
And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things ; 

TeU of the golden gate 

That opened wide doth wait, 
And shadoAV her dim sleep with their celestial wings. 

Hearing of that blest shore 

She thinks on earth no more. 
Contented to forego this wintry land. 

She has nor thought nor care 

But to rest calmly tliere, 
And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand. 

But on the other face 

Broodeth a mournful grace, 
This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, 

While sinking thus to sleep 

She saw her mother weep. 
And could not lift her hand to dry those heart-sick tears. 

Could not — but failing lay, 
Sighed her young life away, 
And let her arm drop down in listless rest, 



292 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT. 

Too weary on that bed 

To turn her dying head, 

Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. 

Yet this is faintly told 

On features fair and cold, 
A look of calm surprise, of mild regret. 

As if with life oppressed 

She turned her to her rest. 
But felt her mother's love and looked not to forget. 

How wistfully they close. 

Sweet eyes, to their repose ! 
How quietly declines the placid brow ! 

The young lips seem to say, 

" I have wept much to-day, 
And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now." 

Sleep ! there are left below 

Many who pine to go. 
Many who lay it to their chastened souls, 

That gloomy days draw nigh. 

And they are blest who die. 
For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls. 

And as for me I know 

A little of her woe, 
Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, 

And sighs of them that weep, 

" put us soon to sleep, 
For when we wake — with Thee — we shall be satisfied." 



HYMNS. 



THE MEASURELESS GULFS OF AIE ARE 
FULL OF THEE. 

"In Him we live, and move, and have our being.'" 

THE measureless gulfs of air are full of Thee : 
Thou Art, and therefore hang the stars ; they wait, 
And swim, and shine in God who bade them he, 
And hold their sundering voids inviolate. 

A God concern'd (veil'd in pure light) to bless, 
With sweet revealing of His love, the soul ; 

Toward things piteous, full of piteousness ; 

The Cause, the Life, and the continuing Whole. 

He is more present to all things He made 

Than anything unto itself can be ; 
FuU-foliaged boughs of Eden could not shade 

Afford, since God was also 'neatli the tree. 

Thou knowest me altogether ; I knew not 

Thy likeness till Thou mad'st it manifest. 
There is no world but is Thy heaven ; no spot 

Remote ; Creation leans upon Tliy breast. 



294 THOU WERT FAR OFF. 

Thou art beyond all stars, yet in my lieart 

Wonderful whisperings hold Thy creature dumb ; 

I need no search afar ; to me Thou art 
Father, Eedeemer, and Eenewer — come. 



THOU WERT FAR OFF AND IN THE SIGHT 
OF HEAVEN. 

" And fell on his neck, and kissed Jmn." 

THOU wert far off, and in the sight of heaven 
Dead. And thy Father would not this should be 
And now thou livest, it is all forgiven ; 
Think on it, my soul. He kissed thee ! 

What now are gold and gear 1 thou canst afford 
To cast them from thee at His sacred call, 

As Mary, when she met her living Lord, 
The burial spice she had prepared let fall 

! what is death to life 1 One dead could well 
Afford to waste his shroud, if he might wake ; 

Thou canst afford to waste the world, and sell 
Thy footing in it, for the new world's sake. 

What is the world ? it is a waiting place. 

Where men put on their robes for that above. 

What is the new world 1 'tis a Father's face 
Beholden of His sons — the face of love. 



THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE. 295 

THICK ORCHARDS ALL IN WHITE. 

" The time of the singing of birds is come." 

THICK orchards, all in white, 
Stand 'neath blue voids of light, 
And birds among the branches blithely sing, 
For they have all they know ; 
There is no more, but so, 
All perfectness of living, fair delight of spring. 

Only the cushat dove 

Makes answer as for love 
To the deep yearning of man's yearning breast ; 

And mourneth, to his thought, 

As in her notes were wrought 
Fulfill'd in her sweet having, sense of his unrest. 

Not with possession, not 

With fairest earthly lot, 
Cometh the peace assured, his spirit's quest ; 

With much it looks before, 

With most it yearns for more ; 
And ' this is not our rest,' and ' this is not our rest.' 

Give Thou us more. We look 

For more. The heart that took 

All spring-time for itself were empty still ; 



296 SWEET ARE HIS WAYS. 

Its yearning is not spent 
Nor silenced in content, 
Till He that all things lilleth doth it sweetly fill. 

Give us Thyself. The May 

Dureth so short a day ; 
Youth and the spring are over all too soon ; 

Content us while they last, 

Console us for them past. 
Thou with whom bides for ever life, and love, and 
noon. 



SWEET ARE HIS WAYS WHO RULES ABOVE. 

" Though I take the ivings of the morning." 

SWEET are His ways who rules above, 
He gives from wrath a sheltering place ; 
But covert none is found from grace, 
Man shall not hide himself from love. 

What though I take to me the wide 
Wings of the morning and forth fly. 
Faster He goes, whose care on high 

Shepherds the stars and doth them guide. 

What though the tents foregone, T roam 

Till day wax dim lamenting me ; 

He wills that I shall sleep to see 
The great gold stairs to His sweet home. 



NIGHT OF NIGHTS! 297 

What though the press I pass before, 
And climb the branch, He hfts his face; 
I am not secret from His grace 

Lost in the leafy sycamore. 

What though denied with murmuring deep 
I shame my Lord, — it shall not be ; 
For He will turn and look on me, 

Then must I think thereon and weep. 

The nether depth, the heights above, 

Nor alleys pleach'd of Paradise, 

Nor Herod's judgment-halls suffice : 
Man shall not hide himself from love. 



NIGHT OF NIGHTS! 

" Let us now go even unto Bethlehem." 

O NIGHT of nights ! night 
Desired of man so long ! 
The ancient heavens fled forth in light 

To sing thee thy new song ; 
And shooting down the steep. 

To shepherd folk of old, 
An angel, while they watch'd their sheep. 
Set foot beside the fold. 



298 NIGHT OF NIGHTS! 

Lo ! while as like to die 

Of that keen light he shed, 
They look'd on his pure majesty, 

Amazed, and sore bestead ; 
Lo ! while with words of cheer 

He bade their trembling cease, 
The flocks of God swept sweetly near, 

And sang to them of peace. 

All on the hillside grass 

That fulgent radiance fell. 
So close those innocents did pass, 

Their words were heard right well ; 
Among the sheep, their wings 

Some folding, walk'd the sod 
An order'd throng of shining things. 

White, with the smile of God. 

The waits of heaven to hear. 

Oh ! what it must have been ! 
Think, Christian people, think, and fear 

For cold hearts, for unclean ; 
Think how the times go by, 

How love and longing fail, 
Think how we live and how we die, 

As this were but a tale. 

tender tale of old, 

Live in thy dear renown ; 



NIGHT OF NIGHTS! 299 

God's smile was in the dark, behold 

That way His hosts came down ; 
Light up, great God, Thy Word, 

Make the blest meaning strong, 
As if our ears, indeed, had heard 

The glory of their song. 

It was so far away. 

But Thou could'st make it near, 
And all its living might display 

And cry to it, " Be here," 
Here, in th' unresting town. 

As once remote to them, 
"Who heard it when the heavens came down, 

On pastoral Bethlehem. 

It was so long ago. 

But God can make it now, 
And as with that sweet overflow. 

Our empty hearts endow ; 
Take, Lord, those words outworn, 

! make them new for aye, 
Speak — " Unto you a child is born," 

To-day — to-day — to-day. 



300 DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE. 



DEAR IS THE LOST WIFE TO A LONE 
MAN'S HEAET. 

" I have loved thee with an everlasting love." 

DEAR is the lost wife to a lone man's heart, 
When in a dream he meets her at liis door, 
And, waked for joy, doth know she dwells apart, 

AU unresponsive on a silent shore ; 
Dearej, yea, more desired art thou — for tliee 
My divine heart yearns by the jasper sea. 

More than the mother's for her sucking child ; 

She wants, with emptied arms and love untold. 
Her most dear little one that on her smiled 

And went ; but more, I want Mine own. Behold, 
I long for My redeem'd, where safe with Me 
Twelve manner of fruits grow on th' immortal tree ; 

The tree of life that I won back for men, 

And planted in the city of My God. 
Lift up thy head, I love thee ; wherefore, then, 

Liest thou so long on thy memorial sod 
Sleeping for sorrow 1 Rise, for dawn doth break — 
I love thee, and I cry to thee "Awake." 

Serve, — woman whom I love, ere noon be high. 
Ere the long shadow lengthen at tliy feet. 



WEEPING AND WAILING. COl 

Work, — I have many poor, man, that cry, 

My little ones do languish in the street. 
Love, — 'tis a time for love, since I love thee. 
Live, — 'tis a time to live. Man, live in Me. 



WEEPING AND WAILING NEEDS MUST LE. 

"Blessed are ye that weep now." 

WEEPING and wailing needs must be 
When Love His name shall disavow, 
When christen'd men His wrath shall dree, 
Who mercy scorn'd in this their day ; 
But what 1 He turns not yet away, 
Not yet — not now. 



Let me not, waken'd after 

Behold a Judge with lowering brow. 
The world must weep, and I must weep 
Those sins that nail'd Thee on the tree, 
Lord Jesu, of Thy clemency, 

Let it be now. 

Let us have weeping now for sin, 
And not us only ; let Thy tears 

Avail the tears of many to win ; 

Weep with us, Jesu, kind art Thou ; 

We that have sinn'd many long years, 
Let us weep now ; 



302 JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. 

And then, waked up, behold Thy face. 
Who did forgive us. See Thy brow — 

Beautiful — learn Thy love and grace. 

Then wilt Thou wipe away our tears, 

And comfort in th' all-hallow'd spheres, 
Them that weep now. 



JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. 

" Art Thou He that should come ? " 

JESUS, the Lamb of God, gone forth to heal and bless. 
Calm lie the desert pools in a fair wilderness ; 
"Wind-shaken moves the reed, so moves His voice the soul , 
Sick folk surprised of joy, wax when they hear it, whole. 

Calm all His mastering might, calm smiles the desert 

waste ; 
Peace, peace. He shall not cry, nay. He shall not make 

haste ; 
Heaven gazes, hell beneath moved for Him, moans and 

stirs — 
Lo, John lies fast in prison, sick for his messengers. 

John, the forerunner, John, the desert's tameless son. 
Cast into loathkl thrall, his use and mission done ; 
John from his darkness sends a cry, but not a plea ; 
Not, " Hast Thou felt my need 1 " but only, " Art Thou 
Her' 



JESUS, THE LAMB OF GOD. 303 

Unspoken pines his hope, grown weak in lingering dole ; 
None know what pang that hour might pierce the Healer's 

soul; 
Silence that faints to Him — but must e'en so be vain ; 
A word — the fetters fall -^ He will that word restrain. 

Jesus, the Father's son, bound in a mighty plan, 
Eetired full oft in God, show'd not His mind to man ; 
Nor their great matters high His human lips confess ; 
He will His wonders work, and not make plain, but bless. 

The bournes of His wide way kept secret from all thought, 
Enring'd the outmost waste that evil power had wrought ; 
His measure none can take, His strife we are not shown, 
Nor if He gather'd then more sheaves than earth hath 
grown. 

" John, from the Christ of God, an answer for all time," 
The proof of Sonship given in characters sublime ; 
Sad hope will He make firm, and fainting faith restore. 
But yet with mortal eyes will see His face no more. 

He bow'd His sacred head to exigence austere. 
Unknown to us and dark, first piercings of the spear : 
And to each martyr since 'tis even as if He said, 
" Verily I am He — I live, and I was dead. 

"The All-wise found a way — a dark way — dread, un- 
known ; 
I chose it, will'd it Mine, seal'd for My feet alone ; 



304 ALWAY GOOD TO ME. 

Thou canst not therein walk, yet thou hast part in Me, 
I will not break thy bonds, but I am bound with thee. 

" With thee and for thee bound, with thee and for thoe 
given, 

A mystery seal'd from hell, and wonder'd at in heaven ; 

I send thee rest at heart to love, and still believe ; 

But not for thee — nor Me — is found from death re- 
prieve." 



THOU HAST BEEN ALWAY GOOD TO ME. 

" He dodh all things well." 

THOU hast been alway good to me and mine 
Since our first father by transgression fell. 
Through all Thy sorest judgments love doth shine — 
Lord, of a truth, Thou doest all things well. 

Thou didst the food of immortality 

Compass with flame, lest he thereto should win. 
But what 1 his doom, yet eating of that tree. 

Had been immortal life of shame and sin ! 

I would not last immortal in such wise ; 

Desired death, not life, is now ray song. 
Through death shall I go back to Paradise, 

And sin no more — Sweet death, tarry not long ! 



THOU THAT SLEEPEST. 305 

One did prevail that closed gate to unseal, 
Where yet th' immortalizing tree doth grow ; 

He shall there meet us, and once more reveal 
The fruit of life, where crime is not, nor woe. 



THOU THAT SLEEPEST NOT AFEAID. 

' Awake, thou that slccpest, and arise from the dead, and CJirist 
shall give thee light." 

THOU that sleepest not afraid, 
Men and angels thee upbraid ; 
Rise, cry, cry to God aloud. 
Ere the swift hours weave thy shroud : 
0, for Jesus' sake, 
Wake! 

Thee fuU ill doth it beseem 
Through the dark to drowse and dream ; 
In the dead-time of the night 
Here is One can give thee light : 
0, for Jesus' sake. 
Wake ! 

The year passeth — it and all 

God shall take and shall let fall 

Soon, into the whelming sea 

Of His wide eternity : 

0, for Jesus' sake, 

Wake! 
VOL n.— 20 



306 NOW WINTER PAST. 

Noiseless as the flakes of snow 
The last moments falter and go ; 
The time-angel sent this way 
Sweeps them like a drift away : 
0, for Jesus' sake, 
Wake ! 

Loved and watch'd of lieaven, for whom 
The crowned Saviour there makes room, 
Sleeper, hark ! He calls thee, rise, 
Lift thy head, and raise thine eyes ! 
Now, for Jesus' sake, 
Wake ! 



NOW WINTER PAST, THE WHITE-THOEN 
BOWER. 

" Thy gentleness hath made vie (jreat." 

NOW winter past, the white-thorn bower 
Rreaks fortli and Imds down all the glen; 
Now spreads the leaf and grows the flower : 
So grows the life of God, in men. 

Oh, my child-God, most gentle King, 

To me Thy waxing glory show ; 
Wake in my heart as wakes the spring, 

Grow as the leaf and lily grow. 



NOW WINTER PAST. 807 

I was a child, wlien Thou a child 

Didst make Thyself again to me ; 
And holy, harmless, undefiled, 

Play'd at Thy mother Mary's knee. 

Thou gav'st Thy pure example so, 
The copy in my childish breast 

Was a child's copy. I did know- 
God, made in childhood manifest. 

Now I am grown, and Thou art grown 
The God-man, strong to love, to will, 

Who was alone, yet not alone, 

Held in His Father's presence still. 

Now do I know Thee for my cure, 

My peace, the Absolver for me set ; 
Thy goings pass through deeps obscure, 

But Thou with me art gentle yet. 

Long-suffering Lord, to man reveal'd 
As One that e'en the child doth wait, 

Thy full salvation is my shield. 

Thy gentleness hath made me great. 



308 SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD. 
SUCH AS HAVE NOT GOLD TO BRING THEE. 

" Ye also, as lively stones, arc built uj) a spiritual house." 

SUCH as have not gold to bring Thee, 
They bring thanks — Thy grateful sons ; 
Such as have no song to sing Thee, 
Live Thee praise — Thy silent ones. 

Such as have their unknown dwelling, 

Secret from Thy children here, 
Known of Thee, will Thee be telling 

How Thy ways with them are dear. 

None the place ordained refuseth, 

They are one, and they are all 
Living stones, the Builder chooseth 

For the courses of His wall. 

Now Thy work by us fulfilling, 
Build us in Thy house divine ; 
• Each one cries, " I, Lord, am willing, 
Whatsoever place be mine." 

Some, of every eye beholden, 

•Hewn to fitness for the height. 
By Thy hand to beauty moulden. 

Show Thy workmanship in light. 



A MORN OF GUILT. 309 

Other, Thou dost bless with station 

Dariv, and of the foot dowiitrod, 
Sink them deep hi the foundation — 

Buried, hid with Christ in God. 



A MORN OF GUILT, AN HOUR OF DOOM. 

" There was darkness." 

A MORN of guilt, an hour of doom — 
Shocks and tremblings dread ; 
All the city sunk in gloom — 

Thick darkness overhead. 
An awful Sufferer straight and stark ; 

Mocking voices fell ; 
Tremblings — tremblings in the dark, 
In heaven, and earth, and hell. 

Groping, stumbling up the way, 

They pass, whom Christ forgave ; 
They know not what they do — they say, 

" Himself He cannot save. 
On His head behold the crown 

That alien hands did weave ; 
Let Him come down, let Him come down, 

And we will believe ! " 



310 A MORN OF GUILT. 

Fearsome dreams, a rending veil, 

Cloven rocks down liurl'd ; 
God's love itself doth seem to fail 

The Saviour of the -world. 
Dying thieves do curse and wail, 

Either side is scorn ; 
Lo ! He hangs while some cry " Hail ! 

Of heaven and earth forloi'U. 

Still o'er His passion darkness lowers, 

He nears the deathly goal ; 
Eut He shall see in His last hours 

Of the travail of His soul ; 
Lo, a cry ! — the Hrstfruits given 

On the accursed tree — 
" Dying Love of God in heaven, 

Lord, remember me ! " 

By ?Iis sacrifice, foreknown 

Long ages ere that day. 
And by God.'s sparing of His own 

Our debt of death to pay ; 
By the Comforter's consent, 

With ardent tlames bestow'd. 
In this dear race when Jesus went 

To make His mean abode- — 

By the pangs God look'd not on. 
And the world dared not see ; 



MAlir OF MAGDALA. 311 

By all redeeming wonders won 

Tlirougli that dread mystery; — 

Lord, receive once more the sigh. 
From tiie accursed tree — 

" Sacred Love of God most high, 
remember me ! " 



MAEY OF MAGDALA. 

" While it was yet dark." 

MARY of Magdala, when the moon had set. 
Forth to the garden that was with night dews 
wet, 
Fared in the dark — woe-wan and bent was she, 
'Xeath many pounds' weight of fragrant spicery. 

Mary of Magdala, in lier misery, 

" Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?" quoth she ; 
And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore, 
Because her dearest Lord was, alas ! no more. 

Her burden she let fall, lo ! the stone was gone ; 
Light was there within, out to the dark it shone ; 
AVith an angel's face the dread tomb was bright. 
The which she beholding fell for sore alfriglit. 

Mary of Magdala, in her misery, 

Heard the white vision speak, and did straightway flee ; 

And an idle tale seem'd the wild words she said. 

And nought her heart received — nought was comforted. 



312 MARV OF MAG DAL A. 

" Nay," quoth the men He loved, when they came to see, 
"Our eyes beheld His death, the Saiut of Galilee ; 
Who have borne Him hence truly we cannot say ; " 
Secretly in fear, they turn'd and went their way. 

Mary of Magdala, in her misery, 
Follow'd to the tomb, and wept full bitterly, 
Linger'd in the dark, where first the Lord was laid ; 
The white one spake again, she was no more afraid. 

In a moment — dawn ! solemn, and sweet, and clear, 
Kneeling, yet she weeps, and some one stands anear ; 
Asketh of her grief — she, all her thoughts are dim, 
" If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me," doth answer 
Him. 

" Mar}^," He saith, no more, shades of night have fled 
Under dewy leaves, behold Him ! — death is dead ; 
" Mary," and " my Master," sorrow speeds away, 
Sunbeams touch His feet this earliest Easter day. 

After the pains of death, in a place unknown. 
Trembling, of visions haunted, and all alone, 
I too shall want Thee, Jesus, my hope, my trust, 
Fall'n low, and all unclothed, even of my poor dust. 

I, too, shall hear Thee speak, Jesus, my life divine ; 
And call me by my name, Lord, for I am Thine ; 
Thou wilt stand and wait, I shall so look and see, 
In tlie garden of God, I shall look up — on Thee. 



HUMAN AND DIVINE LOVE. 313 

WOULD I, TO SAVE MY DEAR CHILD ? 

" Thou thoughtest that I ivas altogether mch an one as thyself." 

WOULD I, to save my dear child dutiful, 
Dare the white breakers on a storm-rent shore 1 
Ay, truly, Thou all good, all beautiful, 

Truly I would, — then truly Thou would'st more. 

"Would I for my poor son, who desolate 
After long sinning, sued without my door 

For pardon, open it? Ay, fortunate 

To hear such prayer, I would, — Lord, Thou would'st 
more. 

Would I for e'en the stranger's weariness 

And want divide, albeit 'twere scant, my store 1 

Ay, and mine enemy, sick, shelterless, 

Dying, I would attend, — 0, Lord, Thou more. 

In dust and ashes my long infamy 

Of unbelief I rue. My love before 
Thy love I set : my heart's discovery, 

Is sweet, — whate'er I would. Thou wouldest more. 

I was Thy shelterless, sick enemy, 

And Thou didst die for me, yet heretofore 

I have fear'd ; now learn I love's supremacy, — 
Whate'er is known of love. Thou lovest more. 



314 AT ONE AGAIN. 



AT 0]S^E AGAm. 



I. NOONDAY. 



1 



TWO angry men — in heat they sever, 
And one goes home by a harvest field : — 
" Hope 's nought," quoth he, " and vain endeavor ; 
I said and say it, I will not yield ! 

" As for this wrong, no art can mend it, 
The bond is shiver'd that held us twain ; 

Old friends we be, but law must end it. 
Whether for loss or whether for gain. 

" Yon stream is small — full slow its wending ; 

But winning is sweet, but right is fine ; 
And shoal of trout, or willowy bending — 

Though Law be costly — I'll prove them mine. 

" His strawberry cow slipped loose her tether. 
And trod the best of my barley down ; 

His little lasses at play together 

Pluck'd the poppies my boys had grown. 

" What then] — Why naught ! She lack'd of reason 
And thei/ — my little ones match them well : — 

But this — N'ay all things have their season. 
And 'tis my season to curb and quell." 



AT ONE AGAIN. 315 



So saitli lie, wlien noontide fervors flout him, 
So thinks, when the West is amber and red, 

When he smells the hop-vines sweet about him, 
And the clouds are rosy overhead. 

While slender and tall the hop-poles going 
Straight to the West in their leafy lines, 

Portion it out into chambers, glowing. 
And bask in red day as the sun declines. 

Between the leaves in his latticed arbor 
He sees the sky, as they flutter and turn, 

Wliile moor'd like boats in a golden harbor 
The fleets of feathery cloudlets burn. 

Withdrawn in shadow, he thinketh over 

Harsh thoughts, the fruit-ladeu trees among, 

Till pheasants call their young to cover. 
And cushats coo them a nursery song. 

And flocks of ducks forsake their sedges. 
Wending home to the wide barn-door. 

And loaded wains between the hedges 
Slowly creep to his threshing floor — 

Slowly creep. And his tired senses. 
Float him over the magic stream. 

To a world where Fancy recompenses 

Vengeful thoughts, with a troubled dream ! 



316 AT ONE AGAIN. 



III. THE DREAM. 



What's this] a wood — What's that? one calleth, 
Calleth and cryeth in mortal dread — 

He hears men strive — then somewhat falleth ! — 
"Help me, neighbor — I'm hard bestead." 

The dream is strong — the voice he knoweth — 
But when ho would run, his feet are fast, 

And death lies beyond, and no man goeth 
To help, and he says the time is past. 

His feet are held, and he shakes all over, — 

Nay — they are free — he has found the place — 

Green boughs are gather'd — what is't they cover 1- 
"I pray you, look on the dead man's face ; 

" You that stand by," he saith, and cowers — 

" Man, or Angel, to guard the dead 
With shadowy spear, and a brow that lowers. 

And wing-points reared in the gloom o'erhead. — 

" I dare not look. He wronged me never. 

Men say we differ'd ; they speak amiss : 
This man and I were neighbors ever — 

I would have ventured my life for his. 

" But fast my feet were — fast with tangles — 
Ay ! words — but they were not sharp, I trow, 

Tliough parish feuds and vestry wrangles — 
pitiful sight — I see thee now ! — 



AT ONE AGAIN.- 817 

" If we fell out, 'twas but foul Aveather, 

After long shining I bitter cup, — 
What — cleadi — why, man, we play'd together — 

Art dead — ere a friend can make it up 1 " 



IV. THE WAKING. 

Over his head the chafer hummeth, 
Under his feet shut daisies bend : 

Waken, man ! the enemy cometh, 

Thy neighbor, counted so long a friend. 

He cannot waken — and firm, and steady, 
The enemy comes with lowering brow ; 

He looks for war, his heart is ready, 

His thoughts are bitter — he will not bow. 

He fronts the seat, — the dream is flinging 
A spell that his footsteps may not break, - 

But one in the garden of hops is singing — 
The dreamer hears it, and starts awake. 



Walking apart, she thinks none listen ; 

And now she carols, and now she stops 
And the evening star begins to glisten 

Atween the lines of blossoming hops. 



318 AT ONE AGAIN. 

Sweetest Mercy, your mother taught you 
All uses and cares that to maids belong ; 

Apt scholar to read and to sew she thought you • 
She did not teach you that tender song — 

" The lady sang in her charmed bower, 
Sheltered and safe under roses blown — 

' Storm cannot touch ine, hail, nor shower, 
Where all alone I sit, all alone. 

" My bower ! The fair Fay twined it ronnd me ; 

Care nor trouble can pierce it through ; 
But once a sigh from the warm world found me 

Between two leaves that were bent with dew. 

" And day to night, and night to morrow, 
Though soft as slumber the long hours wore, 

I looked for my dower of love, of sorrow — 
Is there no more — no more — no more ? ' 

"Give her the sun-sweet light, and duly 
To walk in shadow, nor chide her part ; 

Give her the rose, and truly, truly — 

To wear its thorn with a patient heart — 

" Misty as dreams the moonbeam lyeth 

Chequered and faint on her charmed floor ; 

The lady singeth, the lady sigheth — 
'/s there no more — no more — no more I ' " 



AT ONE AGAIN. 319 



A CRASH of boughs ! — one through them breaking ! 

Mercy is startled, and fain would fly, 
But e'en as she turns, her steps o'ertaking, 

He pleads with her — "^ Mercy, it is but I ! " 

" Mercy ! " he touches her hand unbidden — 
" The air is balmy, I pray you stay — 

Mercy ■? " Her downcast eyes are hidden. 
And never a word she has to say. 

Till closer drawn, her prison'd fingers 

He takes to his lips with a yearning strong ; 

And she murmurs low, that late she lingers. 
Her mother will want her, and think her long. 

" Good mother is she, then honor duly 
The lightest wish in her heart that stirs ; 

But there is a bond yet dearer truly, 
And there is a love that passeth hers. 

" Mercy, Mercy ! " Her heart attendeth — 
Love's birthday blusli on her brow lies sweet ; 

She turns her face wlien his own he bendeth, 
And the lips of the youth and the maiden meet. 



320 AT ONE AGAIN. 



Move through the bowering hops, lovers, — 
Wander down to the golden West, — 

But two stand mute in the shade that covers 
Your love and youth from their souls opprest. 

A little shame on their spirits stealing, — 
A little pride that is loth to sue, — 

A little struggle with soften'd feeling, — 
And a world of fatherly care for you. 

One says : " To this same running water, 
May be, Neighbor, your claim is best." 

And one — " Your son has kissed my daughter : 
Let the matters between us — rest." 



SONNETS. 



FANCY. 

O FANCY, if thou flyest, come back anon, 
Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word, 

And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, 
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. 
I ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on. 

From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred ; 

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, 
And waved memorial grass of Marathon. 
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day 

I saw thee running down the rims of doom 
With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay 

Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast ; 
Bring rather to me in the firelit room 

A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 



COMPENSATION. 

ONE launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea ; 
He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down 
He meant much good, none came : strange destiny. 
His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town, 
Yet good he had not meant became his crown ; 

VOL. II. — 21 



322 LOOKING DOWN. 

For once at work, when even as nature free, 

From thought of good he was, or of renown, 
God took the work for good and let good be. 
So wakened Avith a trembling after sleep, 

Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store ; 
All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep. 

And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore. 
Then stolen to unplunibed wastes of that far deep, 

Lay the foundations for one island more. 



LOOKING DOWK 

MOUNTAINS of sorrow, I have heard your moans. 
And the moving of your pines ; but we sit high 
On your green shoulders, nearer stoops the sky, 
And pure airs visit us from all the zones. 

Sweet world beneath, too happy far to sigh, 
Dost thou look thus beheld from heavenly thrones ? 
No ; not for all the love that counts thy stones, 
While sleepy with great light the valleys lie. 
Strange, rapturous peace ! its sunshine doth enfold 

My heart ; I have escaped to the days divine, 
It seemeth as bygone ages back had rolled. 

And all the eldest past was now, was mine ; 
Nay, even as if Melchizedec of old 

Might here come forth to us with bread and wine. 



WORK — WISHING. 323 



W R K. 



LIKE coral insects multitudinous 
The minutes are whereof our life is made. 

They build it up ah in the deep's blue shade 
It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus 
For both there is an end. The populous 

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid 

Life's debt of work are spent ; the work is laid 
Before our feet that shall come after us. 
We may not stay to watch if it will speed, 

Tlie bard if on some luter's string his song 
Live sweetly yet ; the hero if his star 
Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed, 

Else have we none more than the sea-born throng 
Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar. 



WM S H I N G. 

^T 7"HEX I reflect how little I have done, 
^ ^ And add to that how little I have seen, 

Tlien furthermore how little I have won 
Of joy, or good, how little known, or been : 
I long for other life more full, more keen. 

And yearn to change with such as Avell have run 
Yet reason mocks me — nay, the soul, I ween, 



324 TO . 

Granted her choice would dare to change with none ; 
No, — not to feel, as Blondel when his lay 

Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it- 
No, — not to do, as Eustace on the day 

He left fair Calais to her Aveeping ht — 
No, — not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep 
When his new world rose from the charmed deep. 



TO 



STRANGE was the doom of Heracles, whose shade 
Had dwelling in dim Hades the unblest, 

While yet his form and presence sat a guest 
With the old immortals when the feast was made. 
Thine like, thus difi'ers ; form and presence laid 

In this dim chamber of enforced rest, 

It is the unseen "shade" which, risen, hath pressed 
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed. 
My soul admires to hear thee speak ; thy thought 

Falls from a high place like an August star. 
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings — 

When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar — 
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought, 

He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings. 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 325 



ON THE BOKDERS OF CANNOCK CHASE. 

A COTTAGER leaned whispering by her hives, 
Telling the bees some news, as they lit down, 

And entered one by one their waxen town. 
Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives. 
And all the sunny hills Avhere heather thrives 

Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown 

Of trees enringed the upper headland brown, 
And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives, 
Glittered and gleamed. 

A resting-place for light. 
They that were bred here love it ; but they say, 

" We shall not have it long ; in three years' time 
A hundred pits will cast out fires by night, 
Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way. 
And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime." 



AN ANCIENT CHESS KING. 

HAPLY some Rajah first in the ages gone 
Amid his languid ladies fingered thee, 
While a black nightingale, sun-swart as he. 
Sang his one wife, love's passionate oraison ; 
Haply thou may'st have pleased Old Prester John 



326 COMFORT IN THE NIGHT. 

Among his pastures, when full royally 

He sat in tent, grave shepherds at his knee, 
"While lamps of balsam winked and glimmered on. 
What doest thou here % Thy masters are all dead ; 

My heart is full of ruth and yearning pain 
At sight of thee ; king that hast a crown 

Outlasting theirs, and tell'st of greatness fled 
Through cloud-hung nights of unabated rain 
And murmurs of the dark majestic town. 



COMFOET IN THE NIGHT. 

SHE thought by heaven's high wall that she did stray 
Till she beheld the everlasting gate : 

And she climbed up to it to long, and wait, 
Eeel with her hands (for it was night), and lay 
Her lips to it Avith kisses ; thus to pray 

That it might open to her desolate. 

And lo ! it trembled, lo ! her passionate 
Crying prevailed. A little little way 
It opened : there fell out a thread of light, 

And she saw wingM wonders move within ; 
Also she heard sweet talking as they meant 
To comfort her. They said, " Who comes to-night 

Shall one day certainly an entrance win ; " 
Then the gate closed and she awoke content. 



A SXOW MOi'XTAIX. 327 



THOUGH ALL GEEAT DEEDS. 

THOUGH all great deeds were proved but fables fine, 
Though earth's old story could be told anew, 

Though the sweet fashions loved of them that sue 
"Were empty as the ruined Delphian shrine — 
Though God did never man, in words benign, 

"With sense of His great Fatherhood endue. 

Though life immortal were a dream untrue, 
And He that promised it were not diWne — 
Though soul, though spirit were not, and aE hope 

Reaching beyond the bourne, melted away ; 
Though virtue had no goal and good no scope, 

But both were doomed to end with this our clay — 
Though all these were not, — to the ungraced heir 
"Would this remain, — to live, as though they were. 



A SXOW MOUXTAIX. 

CAX I make white enough my thought for thee, 
Or wash my words in light ? Thou hast no mate 
To sit aloft in the silence silently 

And twin those matchless heights undesecrate. 
Reverend as Lear, when, lorn of shelter, he 

Stood, with his old white head, surprised at fate ; 
Alone as Galileo, when, set free, 

Before the stars he mused disconsolate. 



328 SLEEP. 

Ay, and remote, as the dead lords of song, 
Great masters who have made us what we are, 

For thou and they have taught us how to long 
And feel a sacred want of the fair and far : 

Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire — 

Our only greatness is that we aspire. 



SLEEP. 
(a woman speaks.) 

O SLEEP, we are beholden to thee, sleep, 
Thou bearest angels to us in the night, 

Saints out of heaven with palms. Seen by thy light 
Sorrow is some old tale that goeth not deep ; 
Love is a pouting child. Once I did sweep 

Through space with thee, and lo, a dazzling sight — 

Stars ! They came on, I felt their drawing and might 
And some had dark companions. Once (I weep 
When I remember that) we sailed the tide, 
And found fair isles, where no isles used to bide, 

And met there my lost love, who said to me, 
That 'twas a long mistake : he had not died. 

Sleep, in the world to come how strange 'twill be 
IS^ever to want, never to wish for tliee ! 



PROMISING^ LOVE. 329 

PEOMISING. 

(a man speaks.) 

ONCE, a new world, the sunswart raarinere, 
Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood, 
Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year ; 

But let at last to make his promise good. 
Promised and promising I go, most dear, 

To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud, 
My life with its most reverent hope and fear. 

And my religion, with fair gratitude. 
we must part ; the stars for me contend, 

And all the winds that blow on all the seas. 
Through wonderful waste places I must wend, 

And with a promise my sad soul appease. 
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss ; 
But — ah, for present joy, give me one kiss. 



LOVE. 

WHO veileth love should first have vanquished fate. 
She folded up the dream in her deep heart, 
Her fair full lips were silent on that smart, 
Tliick fringed eyes did on the grasses wait. 
What good ] one eloquent blush, but one, and straight 



330 FAILURE. 

The meaning of a life was known ; for art 
Is often foiled in playing nature's part, 

And time holds nothing long inviolate. 

Earth's buried seed springs up — slowly, or fast : 

The ring came home, that one in ages past 
Flung to the keeping of unfathomed seas : 
And golden apples on the mystic trees 

Were sought and found, and home away at last, 
Though watched of the divine Hesperides. 



FAILUEE. 

WE are much bound to them that do succeed 
But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound 
To such as fail. They all our loss expound ; 
They comfort us for work that will not speed, 
And life — itself a failure. 

Ay, his deed, 
Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound 

Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound, 
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read 
Therefore the worse? Ah, no ! so much to dare. 

He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne. — 
So much to do ; impetuous even there. 

He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan — 
He wins ; but few for that his deed recall : 
Its power is in the look which costs him all. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 331 

A BIRTHDAY WALK. 

(written for a friend's birthday.) 
" The days of our life are threescore years aiul ten.' 

ABIETHDAY : — and a day that rose 
With much of hope, with meaning rife — 
A thoughtful day from dawn to close : 
The middle day of human life. 

In sloping fields on narrow plains, 

The sheep were feeding on their knees 

As we went through the winding lanes, 
Strewed with red buds of alder-trees. 

So warm tlie day — its influence lent 

To flagging thought a stronger wing ; 
So utterly was winter spent. 

So sudden was the birth of spring. 

Wild crocus flowers in copse and hedge — 

In sunlight, clustering thick below, 
Sighed for the firwood's shaded ledge, 

Where sparkled yet a line of snow. 

And croAvded snowdrops faintly hung 

Their fair heads lower for the heat, 
While in still air all branches flung 

Their shadowy doubles at our feet. 



A BIRTHDAY WALK. 

And through the hedge the sunbeams crept, 
Dropped through the maple and the birch ; 

And lost in airy distance slept 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Church. 

Then, lingering on the downward way, 

A little space we resting stood, 
To watch the golden haze that lay 

Adown that river by the wood. 

A distance vague, the bloom of sleep 
The constant sun had lent the scene, 

A veiling charm on dingles deep 

Lay soft those pastoral hills between. 

There are some days that die not out, 

ISTor alter by reflection's power, 
Whose converse calm, whose words devout, 

For ever rest, the spirit's dower. 

And they are days when drops a veil — 

A mist upon the distance past ; 
And while we say to peace — " All hail ! " 

We hope that always it shall last. 

Times when the troubles of the heart 

Are hushed — as winds were hushed that day - 

And budding hopes begin to start. 

Like those green hedgerows on our way : 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 333 

Wlien all within and all around 

Like hues on that sweet landscape blend, 

And Nature's hand has made to sound 
The heartstrings that her touch attend : 

When there are rays within, like those 

That streamed through maple and through birch, 

And rested in such calm repose 

On the broad tower of Tamworth Chui-ch. 



NOT IN VAIN I WAITED. 

SHE was but a child, a child. 
And I a man grown ; 
Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild, 
And, I thought, my own. 
What could I do 1 The long grass groweth. 

The long wave floweth with a murmur on : 
The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth ] 

Ere I thought to lose her she was grown — and gone. 
This day or that day in warm spring weather, 
The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether. 
" But if the world wound thee," I said, " come back to me, 
Down in the dell wishing — wishing, wishing for thee." 

The dews hang on the white may, 

Like a ghost it stands. 
All in the dusk bef(jre day 

That folds the dim lands : 



334 A GLEANING SONG. 

Dark fell the skies when once Lelater], 

Sad, and sorroM'-fated, 1 missed the sun ; 
But wake, heart, and sing, fur not in vain I waited. 
clear, solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won ! 
Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover, 
Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over ; 
Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see : 
Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with me. 



A GLEANING SONG. 

" \1 /HITHER away, thou little careless rover? 

VV (Kind Roger's true) 
Whither away across yon bents and clover, 
Wet, wet with dew ] " 
" Roger here, Roger there — 

Roger — 0, he sighed, 
Yet let me glean among the wheat. 
Nor sit kind Roger's bride." 

" What wilt thou do when all the gleaning's ended, 

What wilt thou do ? 
The cold will come, and fog and frost-work blended 

(Kind Roger's true)." 

" Sleet and rain, cloud and storm, 

When they cease to frown 
I'll bind me primrose bunches sweet, 

And cry them up the town." 



WITH A DIAMOND. 335 

Wliat if at last thy careless heart awakiug 

This day thou rue 1 " 
I'll cry my flowers, and think for all its breaking, 
Kind Koger's true ; 
Roger here, Roger there, 

0, my true love sighed, 
Sigh once, once more, I'll stay my feet 
And rest kind Roger's bride." 



WITH A DIAMOND. 

WHILE Time a grim old lion gnawing lay. 
And mumbled with his teeth you regal tomb, 
Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye. 

This gem was dropped among the dust of doom. 

Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen, 
A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue : 

Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene, 
For great new griefs to be hereafter sung. 

Take it, — a goddess might have wept such tears. 

Or Dame Electra changed into a star, 
That waxed so dim because her children's years 

In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war. 

Not till the end to end grow dull or waste, — 
Ah, what a little while the light we share ! 

Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced, 
Signing tlie Will that leaves it to an heir. 



336 MARRIED LOVERS. 



MARRIED LOVERS. 

COME away, the clouds are high, 
Put the flashing needles by. 
Many days are not to spare, 
Or to waste, my fairest fair ! 
All is ready. Come to-day, 
For the nightingale her lay. 
When she findeth that the whole 
Of her love, and all her soul, 
Cannot forth of her sweet throat, 
Sobs the while she draws her breath, 
And the bravery of her note 
In a few days altereth. 

Come, ere she despond, and see 
In a silent ecstasy 

Chestnuts heave for hours and hours 
All the glory of their flowers 
To the melting blue above. 
That broods over them like love. 
Leave the garden walls, where blow 
Apple-blossoms pink, and low 
Ordered beds of tulips fine. 
Seek the blossoms made divine 
With a scent that is their soul. 
These are soulless. Bring the white 



MAURI ED LOVERS. 337 

Of thy gown to bathe in liglit 
Walls for narrow hearts. The whole 
Earth is found, and air and sea, 
Not too wide for thee and me. 

Not too wide, and yet thy face 

Gives the meaning of all space ; 

And thine eyes, with starbeams fraught. 

Hold the measure of all tliought ; 

For of them my soul besought, 

And was shown a glimpse of thine — 

A veiled vestal, with divine 

Solace, in sweet love's desjxair, 

For that life is brief as fair. 

Who hath most, he yearneth most, 

Sure, as sehloui heretofore, 

Somewhere of tlie gracious more. 

Deepest joy the least shall boast. 

Asking with new-opened eyes 

The remainder; that which lies 

0, so fair ! but not all conned — 

0, so near! and yet beyond. 

Coiue, and in the woodland sit. 
Seem a wonted part of it. 
Then, Avhile moves the delicate air, 
And the glories of thy hair 
Little flickering sun-rays strike. 
Let me see what tluni art like ; 
vol.. u. — 22 



J WINTER SUNG. 

For great love enthralls me so, 
Tliat, in sootli, I scarcely know. 
Show me, in a house all green, 
Save for long gold wedges' sheen, 
Wliere the flies, wliite sparks of fire, 
Dart and hover and aspire. 
And tlie leaves, air-stirred on higli, 
Feel such joy they needs must sigh, 
And the untracked grass makes sweet 
All fair flowers to touch thy feet. 
And the bees about them hum. 
All the world is waiting. Come ! 



A WINTER SONG. 

CAME the dread Archer up yonder lawn — 
Night is the time for the old to die — 
But woo for an arrow tliat smote the iawn, 

Wlien the hind that was sick unscathed went by. 

Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore 
(Night is the time when the old must die). 

Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, 
For heart is failing : the end is nigh." 

"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried 
(Night is the time for the old to die), 

" Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide" — 
Dark was the welkin and Avild the skj'. 



A WINTER SONG. 3o9 

Heavily jjlunged from the roof the snow — 
(Night is the time when the old will die), 

She answered, " My mother, 'tis well, I go." 
Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high. 

First at his head, and last at his feet 

(Night is the time when the old should die), 

Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet. 

None else that loved him, none else were nigh. 

I wept in the night as the desolate weep 

(Night is the time for the old to die), 
Cometh my daughter? the drifts arc deep. 

Across the cold hollows how white they lie. 

I sought her afar through the spectral trees 
(Night is the time when the old must die), 

The fells Avere all mufiled, the floods did freeze, 
And a Avrathful moon hung red in the sky. 

By night I found her where pent waves steal 
(Night is the time when the old should die). 

But she lay stifl' by the locked mill-wheel. 

And the old stars lived in their homes on high. 



840 BINDING SHEAVES. 



BINDING SHEAVES. 

HARK ! a lover binding sheaves 
To his maiden sings, 
Flutter, flutter go the leaves. 

Larks drop their wings. 
Little brooks for all their mirth 

Are not blythe as he. 
" Give me what the love is worth 
That I give thee. 

" Speech that cannot be forborne 

Tells the story through : 
I sowed my love in with the corn, 

And they both grew. 
Count the world full wide of girtli, 

And hived honey sweet, 
But count the love of more worth 

Laid at thy feet. 

" Money's worth is house and land. 

Velvet coat and vest. 
Work's worth is bread in hand, 

Ay, and sweet rest. 
Wilt thou learn what love is worth] 

Ah ! she sits above. 
Sighing, ' Weigh me not with earth, 

Love's worth is love.' " 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 341 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

ONCE on a time there walked a raavinev, 
That liad been shipwrecked ; • — on a lonely shore, 
And the green water made a restless stir, 

And a great flock of mews sped on before. 
He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide 
Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side. 

Brown cliffs they were ; they seemed to pierce the sky, 

That was an awful deep of empty blue. 
Save that the wind was in it, and on high 

A wavering skein of wild-fowl tracked it through. 
He marked them not, but went with movement slow, 
Because his thoughts were sad, his courage low. 

His heart was numb, he neither wept nor sighed. 

But wearifully lingered by the wave ; 
Until at length it chanced that he espied. 

Far up, an opening in the clitf, a cave, 
A shelter where to sleep in his distress, 
And lose his sorrow in forgetfulness. 

With that he clambered up the rugged face 

Of that steep cliff that all in shadow lay, 
And, lo, there was a dry and homelike place, 

Comforting refuge for the castaway ; 
And he laid down his weary, weary head, 
And took his fill of sleej) till dawn waxed red^. 



342 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

When he awoke, warm stirring from the soutli 
Of delicate summer air did sough and flow ; 

He rose, and, wending to the cavern's mouth, 
He cast his eyes a little way below 

Where on the narrow ledges, sharp and rude. 

Preening their wings the blue rock-pigeons cooed. 

Then he looked lower and saw the lavender 
And sea-thrift blooming in long crevices. 

And the brown wallflower — April's messenger. 
The wallflower marshalled in her companies. 

Then lower yet he looked adown the steep. 

And sheer beneath him lapped the lovely deep. 

The laughing deep ; — and it was pacified 
As if it had not raged that other day. 

And it went murmuring in the niorningtide 
Innumerable flatteries on its way, 

Kissing the clifts and whispering at their feet 

With exquisite advancement, and retreat. 

This when the mariner beheld he sighed. 
And thought on his companions lying low. 

But while he gazed with eyes unsatisfied 
On the fair reaches of their overthow. 

Thinking it strange he only lived of all. 

But not returning thanks, he heard a call ! 

A soft sweet call, a voice of tender ruth, 

He thought it o:ime from out tlie cave. And, lo, 



THE MARINEIVS CAVE. 343 

It whispered, " Man, look up ! " But he, forsooth, 

Answered, " I cannot, for the long waves flow 
Across my gallant ship where sunk she lies 
With all my riches and my merchandise. 

" Moreover, I am lieavy for the flito 

Of these my mariners drowned in the deep ; 

I must lament me for their sad estate 

Now tliey are gathered in their last long sleep. 

! the unpitying heavens upon me frown, 

Then how should I look up 1 — I must look down." 

And he stood yet watching the fair green sea 
Till hunger reached him ; then he made a fire, 

A driftwood fire, and wandered listlessly 
And gathered many eggs at his desire. 

And dressed them for his meal, and then ho lay 

And slept, and woke upon the second day. 

Whenjis he said, " The cave shall be my home ; 

None will molest me, for the brown cliffs rise 
Like castles of defence behind, — the foam 

Of the remorseless sea beneath me lies ; 
'Tis easy from the cliff my food to win — 
The nations of the rock-dove breed therein. 

*' For fuel, at the ebb yon fair expanse 

Is strewed with driftwood by the breaking wave, 

And in the sea is fish for sustenance. 
I will build up the entrance of the cave. 



344 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

And leave tlierein a window and a di)or, 
And liere will dwell and leave it nevermore." 

Then even so he did ; and when his task, 
Many long days being over, was complete, 

Wiien he had eaten, as he sat to hask 
In tlie red firelight glowing at his feet, 

He was right glad of shelter, and he said, 

" Now for my comrades am I comforted." 

Then did the voice awake and speak again ; 

It murmured, "Man, look up !" But he replied, 
"I cannot. 0, mine eyes, mine eyes are fain 

Down on the red wood-ashes to abide 
Because they warm nie." Then the voice was still. 
And left the lonely mariner to his will. 

And soon it came to pass that he got gain. 

He had great flocks of pigeons which he fed, 
Ami drew great store of fish from out the main, 

And down from eiderducks ; and then he said, 
" It is not good that I should lead my life 
In silence, I will take to me a wife." 

He took a wife, and brought her home to him ; 

And he was good to her and cherished her 
So that she loved him ; then Avhen light waxed dim 

Gloom came no more ; and she would minister 
To all his wants ; while he, being well content, 
Counted her company right excellent. 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 345 

But once as on the lintel of the door 

She leaned to Avatch him while he put to sea, 

This happy wife, down-gazing at the shore, 
Said sweetly, " It is better now with me 

Than it was lately when 1 used to spin 

In my old fatlier's house beside the lin." 

And then the soft voice of the cave awoke — 
The soft voice which had haunted it erewhile — 

And gently to the wife it also spoke, 

" Woman, look up ! " Eut she, with tender guile, 

Gave it denial, answering, " Kay, not so, 

For all that I should look on lietli below. 

" The great sky overhead is not so good 

For my two eyes as yonder stainless sea, 
The source and yielder of our livelihood, 

Where rocks his little boat that loveth me." 
This when the wife had said she moved away. 
And looked no higher than the wave all day. 

Now when the year ran out a child she bore. 

And there was such rejoicing in the cave 
As surely never had there been before 

Since God first made it. Then full, sweet, and grave, 
The voice, "God's utmost blessing brims thy cup, 
0, father of this child, look up, look up ! " 

" Speak to my wife," the mariner replied. 

"I have much work — right welcome work 'tis true — 



340 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Another mouth to feed." And then it sighed, • 
" Woman, look up ! " She said, " Make no ado, 
For I must iieeds look down, on anywise, 
My heaven is in the blue of these dear eyes." 

The seasons of the year did swiftly whirl. 
They measured time by one small life alone ; 

On such a day the pretty pushing pearl, 

That mouth they loved to kiss had sweetly shown, 

That smiling mouth, and it had made essay 

To give them names on such another day. 

And afterward his infant history, 

Whether he played with baubles on the floor, 
Or crept to pat the rock-doves pecking nigh, 

And feeding on the threshold of the door, 
Tliey loved to mark, and all his marvellings dim, 
The mysteries that beguiled and baffled him. 

He was so sweet, that oft his mother said, 
" 0, child, how was it that I dwelt content 

Before thou camest ] Blessings on thy head, 
Thy pretty talk it is so innocent, 

That oft for all my joy, though it be deep, 

When thou art prattling, I am like to weep." 

Summer and winter spent themselves again, 
The rock-doves in their season bred, the cliff 

Grew sweet, for every cleft would entertain 
Tts tuft of blossom, and the mariner's skiff, 



THE MAllINER'S CAVE. 347 

Early and late, would linger in the bay, 
Because the sea was calm and winds away. 

The little child about that rocky height, 

Led by her loving hand who gave him birth, 

Might wander in the clear unclouded light, 
And take his pastime in the beauteous earth ; 

Smell the fair flowers in stony cradles swung, 

And see God's happy creatures feed their young. 

And once it came to pass, at eventide, 

His mother set him in the cavern door, 
And filled his lap with grain, and stood aside 

To watch the circling rock-doves soar, and soar, 
Then dip, alight, and run in circling bands. 
To take the barley from his open hands. 

And even while she stood and gazed at him, 
And his grave father's eyes upon him dwelt. 

They heard the tender voice, and it was dim. 
And seemed full softly in the air to melt ; 

"Father," it murmured, "Mother," <lying aAvay, 

" Look up, while yet the hours are called to-day."' 

" I will," the father answered, " but not now ; " 
The mother said, " Sweet voice, speak to me 

At a convenient season." And the brow 
Of the cliff began to quake right fearfully, 

There was a rending crash, and there did leap 

A riven rock and plunge into the deep. 



348 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

They said, " A storm is coming ; " but they slept 

That night in peace, and thought the storm had passed, 

For there was not a cloud to intercept 
The sacred moonlight on the cradle cast ; 

And to his rocking boat at dawn of day. 

With joy of heart the mariner took his way. 

But when he mounted up the path at night, 

Foreboding not of trouble or mischance. 
His wife came out into the fading light, 

And met him with a serious countenance ; 
And she broke out in tears and sobbings thick, 
" The child is sick, my little child is sick." 

They knelt beside him in the sultry dark. 

And when the moon looked in his face was pale, 

And when the red sun, like a burning barque, 
Rose in a fog at sea, his tender wail 

Sank deep into their hearts, and piteously 

They fell to chiding of their destiny. 

The doves unheeded cooed that livelong day. 
Their pretty playmate cared for them no more ; 

The sea-thrift nodded, wet with glistening spray. 
None gathered it ; the long wave washed the shore ; 

He did not know, nor lift his eyes to trace. 

The new fallen shadow in his dwelling-place. 

The sultry sun beat on the cliffs all day. 

And hot calm air.-i slont on the polislied sea, 



THE MARINER- S CAVE. 349 

The mournful mother wore ber time away, 

Bemoaning of her helpless misery, 
Pleading and plaining, till the day was done, 
" look on me, my love, my little one. 

" What aileth thee, that thou dost lie and moan? 

Ah would that I might bear it in thy stead ! " 
The father made not his forebodings known, 

But gazed, and in his secret soul he said, 
" I may have sinned, on sin waits punishment, 
But as for him, sweet blameless innocent, 

" What has he done that he is stricken down % 

it is hard to see him sink and fade. 
When I, that counted him my dear life's crown, 

So willingly have worked while he has played ; 
That he might sleep, have risen, come storm, come heat. 
And thankfully would fast that he might eat." 

My God, how short our happy days appear ! 

How long the sorrowful ! Tlie}^ thought it long. 
The sultry morn that brought such evil cheer. 

And sat, and wished, and sighed for evensong ; 
It came, and cooling wafts about him stirred, 
Yet when they spoke he answered not a word. 

" Take heart," they cried, but their sad hearts sank low 
When he would moan and turn his restless head, 

And wearily the lagging morns would go. 

And nights, while they sac watching by his Ijed, 



350 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

Until a storm came up with wind and rain, 
And lightning ran along the troubled main. 

Over their heads the mighty thunders brake, 
Leaping and tumbling down from rock to rock. 

Then burst anew and made the cliffs to quake 
As they were living things and felt the shock ; 

The waiting sea to sob as if in pain, 

And all the midnight vault to ring again. 

A lamp was burning in the mariner's cave, 
But the blue lightning flashes made it dim ; 

And when the mother heard those thunders rave, 
She took her little child to cherish him ; 

She took him in her arms, and on her breast 

Full wearily she courted him to rest, 

And soothed him long until the storm was spent. 
And the last thunder peal had died away. 

And stars were out in all the firmament. 

Then did he cease to moan, and slumbering ky, 

While in the welcome silence, pure and deep, 

The care-worn parents sweetly fell asleep. 

And in a dream, enwrought with fancies thick, 
The mother thought she heard the rock-doves coo 

(She had forgotten that her child was sick), 

And she went forth their morning meal to strew ; 

Then over all the cliff with earnest care 

She sought her child, and lo, he was not there ! 



THE MARINER'S CAVE. 351 

But she was nut afraid, though long she souglit 
And chnibed the clili', and set her feet in grass, 

Then reached a river, broad and full, she thought, 
And at its brink he sat. Alas ! alas ! 

For one stood near hira, fair and undefiled, 

An innocent, a marvellous man-child. 

In garments white as wool, and 0, most fair, 
A rainbow covered him with my.stic light ; 

Upon the warmed grass his feet were bare, 
And as he breathed, the rainbow in her sight 

In passions of clear crimson trembling lay, 
With gold and violet mist made fair the ilay. 

Her little life ! she thought, his little hands 
Were full of flowers that he did play withal ; 

But when he saw the boy o' the golden lands, 
And looked him in the face, he let them fall. 

Held through a rapturous pause in Avistful wise 

To the sweet strangeness of those keen child-eyes. 

" Ah, dear and awful God, who chastenest me, 
How shall my soul to this be reconciled ! 

It is the Saviour of the world," quoth she, 
" And to my child He cometh as a child." 

Then on her knees she fell by that vast stream — 

Oh, it was sorrowful, this woman's dream \ 

For lo, that Elder Child drew nearer now, 
Fair as the light, and purer than the sun. 



352 THE MARINER'S CAVE. 

The calms of heaven were brooding on his brow, 

And in his arras He took lier little one, 
Her child, that knew her, but with sweet demur 
Drew back, nor held his hands to come to her. 

With that in mother misery sore she wept — 
" Lamb of God, I love my child so much ! 

He stole away to Thee while we two slept, 

But give him back, for Thou hast many such ; 

And as for me I have but one. deign. 

Dear Pity of God, to give him me again." 

His feet were on the river. Oh, his feet 

Had touched the river now, and it was great ; 

A]id yet He hearkened when she did entreat, 
And turned in quietness as He would wait — 

Wait till she looked upon Him, and behold, 

There lay a long way off a city of gold. 

Like to a jasper and a sardine stone, 

Whelmed in the rainbow stood that fair man-chilil, 
Mighty and innocent, that held her own, 

And as might be his manner at home he smiled, 
Then while she looked and looked, the vision brake, 
And all amazed she started up awake. 

And lo, her little child was gone indeed ! 

The sleep that knows no waking he had slept, 



A REVERIE. S53 

Folded to heaven's own heart ; in rainbow brede 

Clothed and made glad, wliile they two mourned and 
wept, 
l)Ut in the drinking of their bitter cup 
The sweet voice spoke once more, and sighed, "Look up!" 

They heard, and straightway answered, " Even so : 
For what abides that we should look on here 1 

The heavens are better than this earth below, 
They are of more account and far more dear. 

We will look up, for all most sweet and fair. 

Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there." 



A REVERIE. 

WHEN I do sit apart 
And commune with my heart, 
She brings me forth the treasures once my own 
Shows me a happy place 
Where leaf-buds swelled apace, 
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone. 

Rock, in a mossy glade, 

The larch-trees lend thee shade, 

That just begin to feather with their leaves ; 
From out thy crevice deep 
White tufts of snowdrops peep. 

And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves. 
VOL. II. — 23 



354 A REVERIE. 

Ah, rock, I know, I know 

That yet thy snowdrops grow, 
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree, 

Whose sheltering branches hide 

The cottage at its side, 
That nevermore will shade or shelter me. 

I know the stockdoves' note 

Athwart the glen doth float : 
With sweet foreknowledge of her twins oppressed, 

And longings onward sent, 

She broods before the event. 
While leisurely she mends her shallow nest. 

Once to that cottage door. 

In happy days of yore, 
My little love made footprints in the snow. 

She was so glad of spring, 

She helped the birds to sing, 
I know she dwells there yet — the rest I do not know. 

They sang, and would not stop. 

While drop, and drop, and drop, 
I heard the melted rime in sunshine fall ; 

And narrow wandering rills. 

Where leaned the daff'odils. 
Murmured and murmured on, and that was all. 

I think, but cannot tell, 
I think she loved me well, 



DEFTON WOOD. 355 

And some dear fancy with my future twined. 

But I shall never know, 

Hope faints, and lets it go, 
That passionate want forbid to speak its mind. 



DEFTON AA^OOD. 

I HELD my way through Defton Wood, 
And on to Wandor Hall ; 
The dancing leaf let down the light, 

In hovering spots to fall. 
" young, young leaves, you match me well. 

My heart was merry, and sung — 
" Now wish me joy of my sweet youth ; 
My love — she, too, is young! 
so many, many, many 

Little homes above my head ! 
so many, many, many 

Dancing blossoms round me spread ! 
so many, many, many 

Maidens sighing yet for none ! 
Speed, ye wooers, speed with any — 
Speed with all but one." 

I took my leave of Wandor Hall, 

And trod the woodland ways. 
" What shall I do so long to bear 

The burden of my days 1 " 



>5G THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

I sighed my heart into the boughs 

Whereby the culvers cooed ; 
For only I between them went 
Unwooing and unwooed. 
" so many, many, many 

Lilies bending stately heads ! 
so many, many, many 

Strawberries ripened on tlieir beds 
so many, many, many 

Maids, and yet my heart undone ! 
What to me are all, are any — 
I have lost my — one." 



THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

AS T came round the harbor buoy, 
The lights began to gleam, 
No wave the land-locked water stirred. 

The crags were white as cream ; 
And I marked my love by candle-light 
Sewing her long white seam. 
It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, 

Watch and steer at sea, 
It's reef and furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door; 
sweetly my love sings ! 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 

My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water leaped of old, 
When stirred by angel wings. 
Aye longing to list anew, 

Awake and in my dream, 
But never a song she sang like this. 
Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights. 

That brought me in to thee. 
And peace drop down on that low roof 

For the sight that I did see, 
And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 
All for the love of me. 

For 0, for 0, with brows bent low 
By the candle's flickering gleam. 
Her wedding gown it was she wrought, 
Sewing the long white seam. 



AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

AND what will ye hear, my daughters dear ] ■ 
Oh, what Avill ye hear this night 1 
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer, 
Or of lovers and ladies bright 1 



358 AN OLD WIFE'S SONG. 

" Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away 
FroQi the land where fain would we be), 

" Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain 
That is sung in our own countrie. 

" Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago, 

When we walked on the upland lea. 
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white. 

Long rays shooting out from the sea ; 

" While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep 
On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair. 

Never grass was seen so thick nor so green 
As the grass that grew up there ! 

" In the town was no smoke, for none there awoke — 
At our feet it lay still as still could be ; 

And we saw far below the long river flow. 
And the schooners a-warping out to sea. 

" Sing us now a strain shall make us feel again 
As we felt in that sacred peace of morn. 

When we had the first view of the wet sparkling dew. 
In the shyness of a day just born." 

So I sang an old song — it was plain and not long — 
I had sung it very oft when they were small ; 

And long ere it was done they wept every one : 
Yet this M^as all the song — this was all : — 



^A^ OLD WIFE'S SONG. 359 

The snow lies white, and the moon gives light, 

I'll out to the freezing mere, 
And ease my heart with one little song, 

For none will be nigh to hear. 

And it's my love, my love ! 

And it's O my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

When nobody's nigh to hear. 

My love is young, she is young, is young ; 

When she laughs the dimple dips. 
We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew 

Till sweetly they touched my lips. 

And I'll out to the freezing mere, 

Where the stiff reeds whistle so low, 
And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, 

Because I have loved her so. 

Ay, and she's true, my lady is true ! 

And that's the best of it all ; 
And when she blushes my heart so yearns 

That tears are ready to fall. 

And it's my love, my love ! 

And it's my dear, my dear ! 
It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, 

W^hen nobody's nigh to hear. 



3G0 COLD AND QUIET. 



COLD AND QUIET. 

COLD, ray dear, — cold and quiet. 
In their cups on yonder lea, 
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet ; 
So the moss enfoldeth tliee. 
"Plant me, plant me, love, a lily flower — 
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree ; 
And when our children sleep," she sighed, " at the dusk 
hour. 
And when the lily blossoms, come out to me ! " 

Lost, my dear 1 Lost ! nay deepest 

Love is that whicli loseth least ; 
Through the night-time while thou sleepest, 
Still I watch the shrouded east. 
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, 
" Lost " is no word for such a love as mine ; 
Love from her past to me a present giveth. 

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. 
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth 
That which was, and not in vain 
Sacred have I kept, God knowetli. 
Love's last words atween us twain. 
" Hold by oiir past, my only love, my lover ; 
Fall not, but rise, love, by loss of me ! " 
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over. 
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee. 



SLEDGE DELLS. 361 



SLEDGE BELLS. 

'' I ^HE logs burn red ; slie lifts her head, 
JL For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, lightly 
swung. 
" Youtli Avas a pleasant morning, but ah ! to think 'tis 
fled, 
Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, " I, too, was 
young." 

No guides there are but the North star, 

And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, 

The maiden murmurs, " sweet were yon bells afar. 
And hark ! hark ! hark ! for he cometh, he nears the 
door." 

Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. 

How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold 
shore 1 
Nay, I will call him, " Come in from the night and the 
snow. 
And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no 
more." 



362 MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 



MIDSUMMER NIGHT, NOT DARK, NOT LIGHT. 



M 



IVX Dusk all the scented air, 
I'll e'en go forth to one I love, 
And learn how he doth fare. 

the ring, the ring, my dear, for me, 
The ring was a world too fine, 

1 wish it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea. 

Or ever thou mad'st it mine. 

Soft falls the dew, stars tremble through. 

Where lone he sits apart. 
Would I might steal his grief away 

To hide in mine own heart. 
Would, would 'twere shut in yon blossom feir, 

The sorrow that bows thy head. 
Then — I would gather it, to thee unaware, 

And break my heart in thy stead. 

That charmed flower, far from thy bower, 

I'd bear the long hours through, 
Thou should'st forget, and my sad breast 

The sorrows twain should rue. 
sad flower, sad, sad ring to me. 

The ring was a world too fine ; 
And would it had sunk in a forty-fathom sea, 

Ere the morn that made it mine. 



THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SONG. 363 



THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE. 

FAIREST fair, best of good, 
Too high for hope that stood ; 
White star of womanhood shining apart 
my liege lady, 
And my one lady, 
And my loved lady, come down to my heart. 

Reach me life's wine and gold, 

What is man's best all told, 
If thou thyself withhold, sweet, from thy throne 1 

my liege lady, 

And my loved lady, 
And my heart's lady, come, reign there alone. 



THE FAIRY WOMAN'S SOXG. 

THE fairy woman maketh moan, 
" Well-a-day, and well-a-day, 
Forsooth I brought thee one rose, one, 
And thou didst cast my rose away." 
Hark ! Oh hark, she mourneth yet, 

" One good ship — the good ship sailed, 
One bright star, at last it set, 

One, one chance, forsootli it failed." 



364 ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

Clear thy dusk hair from thy veiled eyes, 

Show thy face as thee beseems, 
For yet is starlight in the skies. 

Weird woman piteous througli my dreams. 
" Nay," slie mourns, " forsooth not now, 

Veiled I sit for evermore, 
Eose is shed, and charmed prow 

Shall not touch the charmed shore." 

There thy sons that were to be, 

Thy small gamesome children play ; 
There all loves that men foresee 

Straight as wands enrich the Avay. 
Dove-eyed, fair, with me they wonn 

Where enthroned I reign a queen, 
In the lovely realms foregone, 

In the lives that might have been. 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS.^ 

AND can this be ray own world 1 
'Tis all gold and snow, 
Save where scarlet waves are hurled 

Down yon gulf below. 
'Tis thy world, 'tis my Avorld, 

City, mead, and shore, 
For he that hath his own world 
Hath many worlds more. 

1 " Above the Clouds," and thirteen poems followint^, are from 
'Mopsa the Fairy." 



BEES AS FELLOW-CREATURES. 365 



SLEEP AND TIME. 

" T T TAKE, baillie, wake ! the crafts are out ; 

V V Wake I " said the knight, " be quick ! 
Eor high street, bye street, over the town 

They fight with poker and stick." 
Said the squire, " A fight so fell was ne'er 

In all my bailliewick." 
What said the old clock in the tower ? 
"Tick, tick, tick!" 

" Wake, daughter, wake I the hour draws on ; 

Wake ! " quoth the dame, " be quick ! 
The meats are set, the guests are coming, 

The fiddler waxing his stick." 
She said, " The bridegroom waiting and waiting 

To see thy face is sick." 
What said the new clock in her bower ] 
" Tick, tick, tick ! " 



BEES AND OTHEIi FELLOW-CREATUEES. 

THE dove laid some little sticks, 
Then began to coo ; 
The gnat took his trumpet up 

To play the day through ; 
The pie chattered soft and long — 

But that she always does ; 
The bee did all he had to do. 
And only said. " Buzz." 



366 A WOOING SONG. 



THE GYPSY'S SELLING SONG. 

MV good man — he's an old, old man — 
And my good man got a fall, 
To buy me a bargain so fast he ran 
When he heard the gypsies call : 
" Buy, buy brushes, 
Baskets wrought o' rushes. 
Buy them, buy them, take them, try them, 
Buy, dames all." 

My old man, he has money and land, 

And a young, young wife am L 
Let him put the penny in my white hand 
When he hears the gypsies cry : 
" Buy, buy laces. 
Veils to screen your faces. 
Buy them, buy them, take and try them. 
Buy, maids, buy." 



A WOOING SONG. 

MY fair lady's a dear, dear lady — 
I walked by her side to woo. 
In a garden alley, so sweet and shady. 
She answered, " I love not you, 
John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lad}% 



A COURTING SONG. 367 

" Pray now, pray now, go your way now, 
Do, John, do ! " 

Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady, 

For I passed another day ; 
While making her moan, she sat all alone, 
And thus, and thus did she say : 
"John, John Brady," 
Quoth my dear lady, 
" Do now, do now, once more woo now, 
Pray, John, pray ! " 



A COURTING SONG. 

" 1\ /T ^^TEE," quoth the auld hound 

IVi " Where Avill ye go r' 
" Over moss, over muir. 

To court ray new jo." 
" Master, though the night be merk, 

I'se follow through the snow. 

" Court her, master, court her. 

So shall ye do weel ; 
But and ben she'll guide the house, 

I'se get milk and meal. 
Ye'se get lilting Avhile she sits 

With her rock and reel." 



368 LOVE'S TnUEAD OF GOLD. 

" For, oil ! she has a sweet tongue, 
And een that look down, 

A gold girdle for her waist, 
And a purple gown. 

She has a good word forbye 
Fra a' folk in the town." 



LOVE'S THREAD OF GOLD. 

IN the night she told a story, 
In the night and all night through, 
While the moon was in her glory, 
And the branches dropped with dew. 

'Twas my life she told, and round it 
Rose the years as from a deep ; 

In the world's great heart she found it, 
Cradled like a child asleep. 

In the night I saw her weaving 
By the misty moonbeam cold. 

All the weft her shuttle cleaving 
With a sacred thread of gold. 

Ah ! she wept me tears of sorrow, 
Lulling tears so mystic sweet ; 

Then she wove my last to-morrow, 
And her web lay at my feet. 



THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. 

Of my life she made the story : 
I must weep — so soon 'twas told! 

But your name did lend it glory, 
And your love its thread of gold ! 



THE LEAVES OF LIGN ALOES. 

DEOP, drop from the leaves of lign aloes, 
honey-dew ! drop from the tree. 
Float up through your clear river shallows, 
White lilies, beloved of the bee. 

Let the people, Queen ! say, and bless thee, 
Her bounty drops soft as the dew, 

And spotless in honor confess thee, 
As lilies are spotless in hue. 

On the roof stands yon white stork awaking, 
His feathers flush rosy the while, 

For, lo ! from the blushing east breaking, 
The sun slieds tlie bloom of liis smile. 

Let them boast of thy word, " It is certain; 

We doubt it no more," let them say, 
"Than to-morrow that night's dusky curtain 

Shall roll back its folds for the day." 



370 THE BAYS WITHOUT ALLOY. 



THE DAYS WITHOUT ALLOY, 



f T THEN I sit on market-days amid the cumers and the 

' * goers, 

Oh ! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy, 
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers, 

And a " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy ! heave, hoy ! " 



There is busy talk around me, all about mine oars it hum- 
meth. 
But the wooden Avharves I look on, and a dancing, 
heaving buoy. 
For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometli — oh, she 
Cometh ! 
With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy ! heave, boy!" 

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were 
brighter. 
And I hear the capstan creaking — 'tis a sound that 
cannot cloy. 
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schotnier, sloop oi 
lighter, 
"VYith a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haure, yoy! heave, hoy!" 



FEATHERS AND MOSS. 371 

" Will ye step aboard, my dearest % for the high seas lie 
before us." 
So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy. 
We are launched ! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter 
sound float o'er us 
Than yon " pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy ! heave, 
hoy!" 



FEATHERS AND MOSS. 



THE marten flew to the finch's nest. 
Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay : 
" The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast 
Low in the broom is thy mate to-day." 

" Liest thou low, love 1 low in the broom 1 
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, 

Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom." 
She beateth her wings, and away, away, 

" Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told 
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay) ! 

Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold. 
mournful morrow ! dark to-day ! " 



372 ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. 

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest, 
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay, 

Mine is the trouble that rent her breast. 
And home is silent, and love is clay. 



ON THE ROCKS BY ABERDEEN. 

ON the rocks by Aberdeen, 
Where tlie whislin' wave liad been, 
As I wandered and at e'en 
Was eerie ; 

There I saw thee sailing west, 

And I ran with joy opprest — 

Ay, and took out all my best, 

My dearie. 

Then I busked mysel' wi' speed, 
And the neighbors cried " What need? 
'Tis a lass in any weed 
Aye bonny ! " 

Now my heart, my heart is sair. 
What's the good, though 1 be fair, 
For thou'lt never see me mair, 
Man Johnnie ! 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IX THE LIFT. 373 



LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT. 

IT'S we two, it's Ave two, it's we two for aye, 
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay. 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, bonny bride ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, my love ! — what can it dot 
I am thine, and thou art mine ; life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by. 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, bonny bride ! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me thy man ; now the song begins : 
"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days come, and no sun will sliine. 
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll (Iry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 



374 SONG FOR A BABE. 



SONG FOR A BABE. 

LITTLE babe, while burns the west, 
Warm thee, warm thee in my breast 
While the moon doth shine her best, 
And the dews distil not. 

All the land so sad, so fair — 
Sweet its toils are, blest its care. 
Child, we may not enter there! 
Some there are that will not. 

Fain would I thy margins know, 
Land of work, and land of snow ; 
Land of life, whose rivers flow 
On, and on, and stay not. 

Fain would I thy small limbs fold, 
While the weary hours are told, 
Little babe in cradle cold. 

Some there are that may not. 



GIVE US LOVE AND PEACE. 375 



GIVE US LOVE AND GIVE US PEACE. 



ONE morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 
would cease ; 
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, " Hear the story, hear 
the story ! " 

And the lark sang, " Give us glory ! " 
And the dove said, " Give us peace ! " 



Then I listened, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, 

the dove; 
When the nightingale came after, "Give lis fame to sweeten 
duty!" 

When the wren sang, " Give us beauty ! " 
She made answer, " Give us love ! " 

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my behjved, my 

beloved ; 
Now for ns doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the 

year's increase, 
And my prayer goes up, "Oh, give us, crowned in youth 
with marriage glory, 

Give for all our life's dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace ! " 



376 THE TWO MARGARETS. 



THE TWO MAEGAEETS. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

LYING imbedded in the green champaign 
That gives no sliadow to thy silvery face, 
Open to all the heavens, and all their train, 

The marshalled clouds that cross with stately pace, 
No steadfast hills on thee reflected rest, 
Nor waver with the dimpling of thy breast, 

0, silent Mere ! about whose marges spring 
Thick bulrushes to hide the reed-bird's nest ; 

Where the shy ousel dips her glossy wing, 
And balanced in the water takes her rest : 

While under bending leaves, all gem-arrayed, 

Blue dragon-flies sit panting in the shade : 

Warm, stilly place, the sundew loves thee well, 
And the green sward comes creeping to thy brink, 

And golden saxifrage and pimpernel 

Lean down to thee their perfumed heads to drink ; 

And heavy with the weight of bees doth bend 

White clover, and beneath thy wave descend : 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 37 T 

While the sweet scent of bean-fields, floated wide 

On a long eddy of the lightsome air 
Over the level mead to thy lone side, 

Doth lose itself among thy zephyrs rare, 
With wafts from hawthorn bowers and new-cut hay. 
And blooming orchards lying far away. 

Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm 
Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then 

There is a sound of bells, a far-off psalm 

From gray church towers, that swims across the fen ; 

And the light sigli where grass and waters meet, 

Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. 

Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod 
Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar 

Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, 
Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore ; 

Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace 

The smile of nature moving on thy face ; 

Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold 
Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, 

And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, 
And shape their course, high soaring, till they see 

Down in the world, like molten silver, rest 

Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. 

Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long 
On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, 



.378 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

The boweriiig tree with brandies lithe and strong, 

The only one to grace the level shore, 
"Why dost thou wait 1 for whom with patient cheer 
Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere 1 

Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas ! 

Long watchings leave behind them little trace ; 
And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, 

That bring that dreamy calmness to thy fiice ! 
How quickly must the evenings come that find 
Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind ! 

Thy cheek is resting on thy hand ; thine eyes 
Are like twin violets but half unclosed, 

And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. 
Never more peacefully in love reposed 

A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear. 

Than thine upon the long fiir- stretching Mere. 

Sweet innocent ! Thy yellow hair floats low 
In rippling undulations on thy breast. 

Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow. 
Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest. 

And touch those idle hands that folded lie. 

Having from sport and toil a like immunity. 

Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace 
Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown ; 

Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, 
Like dews upon a lily this day blown ; 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 

Thy sighs are born of peace, unrufHed, deep ; 
So the babe sighs on niotlier's breast asleep. 

It sighs, and wakes, — -but thou ! thy dream is all, 
And thou wert born for it, and it for thee ; 

Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall 
Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, 

Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, 

And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. 

K'o, down the Mere as far as eye can see, 
Where its long reaches fade into the sky, 

Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly ; 
But neither thou nor any can descry 

Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, 

And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. 

And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed 

That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close ; 

'No fluttering hope to thj-^ young heart e'er rushed, 
Nor disappointment troubled its repose ; 

All satisfied with gazing evermore 

Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore. 

The brooding wren flies pertly near thy seat, 

Thou wilt not move to mark her glancing wing ; 

The timid sheep browse close before thy feet. 
And heedless at thy side do thrushes sing. 

So long amongst them thou hast spent thy days, 

They know that harmless hand thou wilt not raise. 



380 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Thou wilt not lift it up — not e'en to take 
The foxglove bells that flourish in the shade, 

And put them in thy bosom ; not to make 
A posy of wild hyacinth inlaid 

Like bright mosaic in the mossy grass, 

With freckled orchis and pale sassafras. 

Gaze on ; — take in the voices of the Mere. 

The break of shallow water at thy feet. 
Its plash among long weeds and grasses sere. 

And its weird sobbing, — hollow music meet 
For ears like thine ; listen and take thy till, 
And dream on it by night when all is still. 

Full sixteen years have slowly passed away, 
Young Margaret, since thy fond mother here 

Came down, a six month's wife, one April tlay, 
To see her husband's boat go down the Mere, 

And track its course, till, lost in distance blue, 

In mellow light it faded from her view. 

It faded, and she never saw it more ; — 

Nor any human eye ; — oh, grief ! oh, woe ! 

It faded, — and returned not to the shore ; 
But far above it still the waters flow — 

And none beheld it sink, and none could tell 

Where coldly slept the form she loved so well ! 

But that sad day, unknowing of her fate, 

She homeward turri'd her still reluctant feet ; 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 381 

And at her wheel she spun, till dark and late 

The evening fell — the time when they should meet ; 
Till the stars paled that at deep midnight burned — 
And morning dawned, and he was not returned. 

And the bright sun came up — she thought too soon — 
And shed his ruddy light along the Mere ; 

And day wore on too cjuickly, and at noon 
She came and wept besiile the waters clear. 

" How could he be so latel" — and then hope tied ; 

And disappointment darkened into dread. 

He NEVER came, and she with weepings sore 

Peered in the water-tiags unceasingly ; 
Through all the undulations of the shore, 

Looking for tluit wliich most she feared to see. 
And then she took home sorrow to her heart, 
And brooded over its culd cruel smart. 

And after, desolate she sat alone 

And mourned, refusing to be comforted. 
On the gray stone, the moss-embroidered stone, 

With the great sycamore above her head ; 
Till after many days a broken oar 
Hard by her seat was drifted to the shore. 

It came, — a token of his fate, — the whole, 

The sum of her misfortune to reveal ; 
As if sent up in pity to her soul, 

The tidings of her widowhood t^ ; seal ; 



382 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And put away the pining hope forlorn, 
That made her grief more bitter to be borne. 

And she was patient ; through the weary day 

Slie toiled ; though none was there her work to blesS; 

And did not wear the sullen months away, 
Nor call on death to end her wretchedness, 

l]ut lest the grief should overflow her breast. 

She toiled as heretofore, and would not rest. 

But, her work done, what time the evening star 
Eose over the cool water, then she came 

To the gray stone, and saw its light from far 

Drop down the misty Mere white lengths of flame, 

And wondered whether there miglit be the place 

Where the soft ripple wandered o'er his face. 

Unfortunate ! In solitude forloni 

She dwelt, and thought upon her husband's grave, 
Till when the days grew short a child was born 

To the dead father underneath the wave ; 
And it brought back a remnant of delight, 
A little sunshine to its mother's sight ; 

A little wonder to her heart grown numb, 
And a sweet yearning pitiful and keen : 

She took it as from that poor father come. 
Her and the misery to stand between ; 

Her little maiden babe, who day by day 

Sucked at her breast and charmed her woes away. 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 383 

But years Hew on ; the child was still the same, 
Nor human language she had learned to speak ; 

Her lips were mute, and seasons went and came, 
And brought fresh beauty tu her tender cheek ; 

And all the day upon tlie sunny shore 

She sat and mused beneatli the sycamore. 

Strange sympathy ! slie watched and wearied not, 
Haply unconscious what it was she sought ; 

Her mother's tale she easily forgot, 

And if she listened no warm tears it brought ; 

Though surely in the yearnings of her heart 

^he unknown voyager must have had his part. 

Cnknown to lier ; like all slie saw unknown, 
All sights were fresli as when they tirst began. 

All sounds were new ; each murmur and each tone 
And cause and consequence she could not scan, 

Forgot that night brought darkness in its train, 

Nor reasoned that the day would come again. 

There is a happiness in past regret ; 

And echoes of the harshest sound are sweet. 
The mother's soul was struck with grief, and yet, 

Repeated in her child, 'twas not unmeet 
That echo-like the grief a tone should take 

Painless, but ever pensive for her sake. 

For her dear sake, whose patient soul was linked 
By ties so many to the babe unborn ; 



384 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Whose hope, by slow degrees become extinct, 

For evermore had left her child forlorn, 
Yet left no consciousness of want or woe, 
Nor wonder vague that these things should be so. 

Truly her joys were limited and few, 

But they sufficed a life to satisfy, 
That neither fret nor dim foreboding knew, 

But breathed the air in a great harmony 
With its own place and part, and was at one 
With all it knew of earth and moon and sun. 

For all of them were worked into the dream, — 
The husky sighs of wheat-fields in it wrought ; 

All the land-miles belonged to it ; the stream 
That fed the Mere ran through it like a thought. 

It was a passion of peace, and loved to wait 

'Neath boughs with fair green light illuminate. 

To wait with her alone ; always alone : 
For any that drew near she heeded not, 

Wanting them little as tlie lily grown 
Apart from others in a shady plot. 

Wants fellow-lilies of like fair degree. 

In her still glen to bear her company. 

Always alone : and yet, there was a child 

Who loved this child, and, from his turret towers, 

Across the lea would roam to where, in-isled 

And fenced in rapturous silence, went her hours, 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 885 

And, with slow footsteps drawn auear the place 
Where ruute she sat, would ponder on her face, 

And wonder at her witli a cliildisli awe, 

And come again to look, and yet again, 
Till the sweet ripjiling of the Mere would draw 

His longing to itself; wliile in her train 
The water-hen, come forth, would bring her brood 
From slumbering in the rushy solitude ; 

Or to their young would curlews call and clang 

Their homeless young that down the furrows creep : 

Or the wind-liover in the blue woukl liang. 
Still as a rock set in the watery deep. 

Tlien from her presence he would break away, 

tJuraarked, ungrceted yet, frcun day to day. 

But older grown, the Mere he haunted yet. 

And a strange joy from its sweet wildnoss cauglit ; 

"VViiilst careless sat alone maid Margaret, 

And " shut the gates " of silence on her thought. 

All through spring mornings gemmed with melted rime, 

All through hay-harvest and through gleaning time. 

pleasure for itself that boyhood makes, 

happiness to roam the sighing shore. 
Plough up with ellin craft the water-flakes, 

And track the nested rail with cautious oar ; 
Then floating lie and look with wonder new 
Straight up in the great dome of light and blue. 



i6 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

pleasure ! yet they took liim from the wold, 
The reedy Mere, aud all his pastime there, 

The place where he was born, and would grow old 
If God his life so many years should spare ; 

From the loved haunts of childhood and the plain 

And pasture-lands of his own broad domain. 

And he came down when wheat was in the sheaf, 
And with her fruit the apple-branch bent low, 

While yet in August glory hung the leaf, 
And flowerless aftermath began to grow ; 

He came from his gray turrets to the sliore, 

And sought the maid beneath the sycamore. 

He sought her, not because her tender eyes 
Would brighten at his coming, for he knew 

Full seldom any thought of him would rise 

In her fair breast when he had passed from view ; 

But for his own love's sake, that unbeguiled 

Drew him in spirit to the silent child. 

For boyhood in its better hour is ]irone 
To reverence what it hath not understood ; 

And lie had thought some heavenly meaning shone 
From her clear eyes, that made their watchings guod 

While a great peacefulness of shade was shed 

Like oil of consecration on her head. 

A fishing wallet from his slioulder slung, 

With bounding foot he reached tlie mossy place, 



MARGARET BY THE MERE SIDE. 387 

A little moment gently o'er her hung, 

Put back her hair and looked upon her face, 
Then fain from that deep dream to wake her yet, 
He "Margaret!" low murmured, "Margaret! 

" Look at me once before I leave the land, 

For I am going, — going, Margaret." 
And then she sighed, and, lifting up her hand, 

Laid it along his young fresh cheek, and set 
Upon his face those blue tAvin-dceps, her eyes. 
And moved it back from her in troubled wise. 

Because he came between her and her fate, 

The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed ; 

The waters, shining clear, with delicate 

Keflections wavered on her blameless breast ; 

And througli the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, 

And played upon her liands and on her hair. 

And he, withdrawn a little space to see, 

Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, 

" Farewell, I go ; but sometimes think of me. 
Maid Margaret;" and there came by again 

A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway 

Of waters : then he turned and Avent his way. 

And wilt thou think on him now he is gonel 

No ; thou wilt gaze : though thy young eyes grow dim, 

And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan. 

Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thouglit on him ; 



388 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

There is no sweetness in liis laugh fur thee — 
No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. 

But wherefore linger in deserted haunts'? 

Why of the past, as if yet present, sing 1 
The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, 

With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, 
And under dappled clouds the lark afloat 
Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. 

But Margaret — ah I thou art there no more, 
And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone 

Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore. 
With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown ; 

Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear 

Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. 

The boy shall come — shall come again in spring, 
Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share. 

And some kind offering in his hand will bring 
To cast into thy lap, maid most fair — 

Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, 

Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. 

And he shall wonder why thou art not here 
The solitude with " smiles to entertain," 

And gaze along the reaches of the Mere ; 
But he shall never see thy face again — 

Shall never see upon the reedy shore 

Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 889 

II. 

MARGAKET IN THE XEBEC. 

[" Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known 
than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the 
battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. 
After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted 
the country, taking with him the child whom he liad adopted ; and 
he made many voyages between the diti'erent ports of the Mediter- 
ranean and Levant."] 

TD ESTINO within his tent at turn of day, 
-'-^ A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset : 
He started up — it did not flee away — 

'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret 
And pine into his heart, "Ah me ! ah me!" 
Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. 

Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing. 
All wearily toward the voice he went 

Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, 
Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, 

Where, Avith the tears upon her face, he found 

A little maiden weeping on the ground ; 

And backward in the tent an aged crone 
Upbraided her full harshly more and more, 

But sunk her chiding to an undertone 

When she beheld him standing at the door, 



390 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And calmed her voice, and dropped her lifted hand, 
And answered him with accent soft and blaud. 

No, the young child was none of hers, she said. 
But she had found her where the ash lay white 

About a smouldering tent ; her infant head 
All shelterless, she through the dewy night 

Had slumbered on the field, — ungentle fate 

For a lone child so soft and delicate. 

" And I," quoth she, " have tended her with care, 
And thought to be rewarded of her kin. 

For by her rich attire and features fair 
I know her birth is gentle : yet within 

The tent unclaimed she doth but pine and weep, 

A burden I would fain no longer keep." 

Still while she spoke the little creature wept. 
Till painful pity touched him for the flow 

Of all those tears, and to his heart there crept 
A yearning as of fatherhood, and lo ! 

Eeaching his arms to her, " My sweet," quoth ho, 

"Dear little madam, wilt thou come with me*?" 

Then she left off her crying, and a look 
Of wistful wonder stole into her eyes. 

The sullen frown her dimjjled face forsook, 
She let him take her, and forgot her sighs, 

Contented in his alien arms to rest, 

And lay her baby head upon his breast. 



MARUAIIET JN THE XEBEC. 391 

Ah, sure a stranger trust was never souglit 

By any soldier on a battle-plain. 
He brought her to his tent, and soothed his voice, 

Rough with command ; and asked, but all in vain. 
Her story, while her prattling tongue rang sweet. 
She playing, as one at home, about his feet. 

Of race, of country, or of parentage, 

Her lisping accents nothing could unfold ; — 

Xo questioning could win to read the page 
Of her short life; — she left her tale untold, 

And home and kin thus early to forget, 

She only knew, — her name was — Margaret. 

Then in the dusk upon his arm it chanced 
That night that suddenly she fell asleep ; 

And he looked down on her like one entranced, 
And listened to her breathing still and deep. 

As if a little child, when daylight closed, 

Witli half-sliut lids had ne'er before reposed. 

Softly he laid her down from off his arm, 
With earnest care and new-born tenderness : 

Her infancy, a wonder-working charm, 

Laid hold upon his love ; he stayed to bless 

The small sweet head, then went he forth that night 

And sought a nurse to tend this new deliglit. 

And day by day his heart she wrought upon, 
And won her way into its inmost fold — 



392 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

A heart wliich, but f(jr lack of that whereon 
To tix itself, would never have been cold ; 
And, 0})eiiing wide, now let her come to dwell 
Within its strong unguarded citadel. 

She, like a dream, unlocked the hidden springs 
Of his past thoughts, and set their current free 

To talk with him of half-forgotten things — 
The pureness and the peace of inlancy, 

" Thou also, thou," to sigh, " wert undeliled 

(0 God, the change!) once, as this little child." 

The baby-mistress of a soldier's heart, 

She had but friendlessness to stand her friend, 

And her own orphanhood to plead her part, 
When he, a wayfarer, did pause, and bend. 

And bear with him the starry blossom sweet 

Out of its jeopardy from trampling feet. 

A gleam of light upon a rainy day, 

A new-tied knot that must be sever'd soon, 

At sunrise once before his tent at play, 
And hurried from the battle-field at noon, 

AVhile face to face in hostile ranks they stood, 

Who should have dwelt in peace and brotherhood. 

But ere the fight, when higher rose the sun. 
And yet were distant far the rebel bands, 

She heard at intervals a booming gun. 

And she was pleased, and laughing clapped her hands ; 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 398 

Till he came in with troubled look and tune, 
Who chose her desolate to be his own. 

And he said, "Little madam, now farewell. 
For there will be a battle fought ere night. 

God be thy shield, for He alone can tell 

Which way may fall the fortune of the fight. 

To titter hands the care of thee pertain, 

My dear, if we two never meet again." 

Then he gave money shortly to her nurse. 
And charged her straitly to depart in haste, 

And leave the plain, whereon the deadly curse 
Of war should light with ruin, death, and waste, 

And all the ills that must its presence blight, 

E'en if proud victory should bless the right. 

" But if the rebel cause should prosper, then 
It were not good among the hills to wend ; 

But journey through to Boston in the fen. 

And wait for peace, if peace our God shall send ; 

And if my life is spared, I will essay," 

Quoth he, "to join you there as best I may." 

So then he kissed the child, and went his way ; 

But many troubles rolled above his head ; 
The sun arose on many an evil day, 

And cruel deeds were done, and tears were shed ; 
And liope was lost, and loyal hearts were fain 
In dust to hide, — ere they two met again. 



394 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

So passed the little child from thought, from view — 
(The snowdrop blossoms, and then is not there, 

Forgotten till men Avelcome it anew), 
He found her in his heavy days of care. 

And with her dimples was again beguiled, 

As on her nurse's knee she sat and smiled. 

And he became a voyager by sea. 

And took the child to share his wandering state ; 
Since from his native land compelled to flee. 

And hopeless to avert her monarch's fate ; 
For all was lost that might have made him pause, 
And, past a soldier's help, the royal cause. 

And thus rolled on long days, long months and years 
And Margaret within the Xebec sailed ; 

The lulling wind made music in her ears. 

And nothing to her life's completeness failed. 

Her pastime 'twas to see the dolphins spring. 

And wonderful live rainbows glimmering. 

The gay sea-plants familiar were to her, 
As daisies to the children of the land ; 

Eed wavy dulse the sunburnt mariner 

Eaised from its bed to glisten in her hand ; 

The vessel and the sea were her life's stage — 

Her house, her garden, and her hermitage. 

Also she had a cabin of her own. 

For beauty like an elfin palace bright, 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 395 

With Venice glass adorned, and crystal stone 
That trembled with a many-colored light ; 
And there with two caged ringdoves slie did play, 
And feed them carefully from day to day. 

Her bed with silken curtains was enclosed, 
White as the snowy rose of Guelderland ; 

On Turkish pillows her young head reposed, 
And love had gathered with a careful hand 

Fair playthings to the little maiden's side, 

From distant ports, and cities parted wide. 

She had two myrtle-plants that she did tend, 

And think all trees were like to them that grew ; 

For things on land she did confuse and l)]end, 
And chiefly from the deck the land she knew. 

And in her heart she pitied more and more 

The steadfast dwellers on the cliangeless shore. 

Green fields and inland meadows faded out 
Of mind, or with sea-images were linked ; 

And yet she had her childish thoughts about 
The country she had left — though indistinct 

And flint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds. 

Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds. 

And when to frame a forest scene she tried, 

The ever-present sea would yet intrude. 
And all her towns were by the water's side, 

It murmured in all moorland solitude. 



96 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Where rocks and the ribbeil sand would intervene, 
And waves would edge her fancied village green ; 

Eecause her heart was like an ocean shell, 

That holds (men say) a message from the deep , 

And yet the laud was strong, she knew its spell, 
And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep ; 

And minster chimes from pierced towers that swim. 

Were the land-angels making God a hymn. 

So she grew on, the idol of one heart, 
And the delight of many — and her face, 

Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart, 

Was touched with a most deep and tender grace — 

A look that never aught but nature gave, 

Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave. 

Strange her adornings were, and strangely blent : 
A golden net confined her nut-l)rown hair ; 

Quaint were the robes that divers lands had lent, 
And quaint her aged nurse's skill and care ; 

Yet did they well on the sea-maiden meet, 

Circle her neck, and grace her dimpled feet. 

The sailor folk were glad because of her. 

And deemed good fortune followed in her wake ; 

She was their guardian saint, they did aver — 
Prosperous winds were sent them for her sake ; 

And strange rough vows, strange prayers, they nightly 
made, 

While, storm or calm, she slept, in nought afraid. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 397 

Clear were her eyes, that daughter of tlie sea, 
Sweet, when uplifted to her aged nurse. 

She sat, and communed what the world could be ; 
And rambling stories caused her to rehearse 

How Yule was kept, how maidens tossed the hay, 

And how bells rang upon a wedding day. 

But they grew brighter when the evening star 
First trembled over the still glowing wave, 

Tliat bathed in ruddy light, mast, sail, and spar ; 
For then, reclined in rest that twilight gave, 

With him who served for father, friend, and guide, 

She sat upon the deck at eventide. 

Then turned towards the west, that on her hair 
And her young cheek shed down its tender glow, 

lie taught her many things with earnest care 

That he thought fitting a young maid should know, 

Told of the good deeds of the worthy dead, 

And prayers devout, by faithful martyrs said. 

And many psalms he caused her to repeat 

And sing them, at his knees reclined the while, 

And spoke with her of all things good and meet, 
And told the stoiy of her native isle. 

Till at the end he made her tears to flow, 

Rehearsing of his royal master's woe. 

And of the stars he taught her, and their names, 
And how the chartless mariner they guide ; 



398 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Of quivering light that in the zenith flames, 

Of monsters in the deep sea caves that hide ; 
Then changed the theme to fairy records wild, 
Enchanted moor, elf dame, or changeling child. 

To her the Eastern lands their strangeness spread, 
The dark-faced Arab in his long blue gown, 

The camel thrusting down a snakedike head 

To browse on thorns outside a walled white town. 

Where palmy clusters rank by rank upright 

Float as in quivering lakes of ribbed light. 

And when the ship sat like a broad-winged bird 
Becalmed, lo, lions answered in the night 

Their fellows, all the hollow dark was stirred 
To echo on that tremulous thunder's flight. 

Dying in weird faint moans ; — till look ! the sun 

And night, and all the things of night, were done. 

And they, toward the waste as morning brake, 
Turned, where, in-isled in his green watered land, 

The Lybian Zeus lay couched of old, and spake. 
Hemmed in with leagues of furrow-faced sand — 

Then saw the moon (like Joseph's golden cup 

Come back) behind some ruined roof swim up. 

But blooming childhood will not always last. 
And storms will rise e'en on the tideless sea ; 

His guardian love took fright, she grew so fast, 
And he began to think how sad 'twould be 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 399 

If he should die, and pirate hordes should get 
By sword or shipwreck his fair Margaret. 

It was a sudden thought ; but he gave way, 
For it assailed him with unwonted force ; 

And, with no more than one short week's delay, 
For English shores he shaped the vessel's course ; 

And ten years absent saw her landed now. 

With thirteen summers on her maiden brow. 

And so he journeyed with her, far inland, 

Down quiet lanes, by hedges gemmed with dew. 

Where wonders met her eye on every hand, 
And all was beautiful and strange and new — 

All, from the forest trees in stately ranks, 

To yellow cowslips trembling on the banks. 

All new — the long-drawn slope of evening shades, 

The sweet solemnities of waxing light. 
The white-haired boys, the blushing rustic maids, 

The ruddy gleam through cottage casements bright, 
The green of pastures, bloom of garden nooks, 
And endless bubbling of the water-brooks. 

So far he took them on through this green land, 
The maiden and lier nurse, till journeying 

They saw at last a peaceful city stand 

On a steep mount, and heard its clear bells ring. 

High were the towers and rich with ancient state. 

In its old wall enclosed and massive gate. 



400 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

There dwelt a worthy matron whom he knew, 
To whom in time of war he gave good aid, 

Shielding her household from the plundering crew 
When neither law could bind nor worth persuade, 

And to her house he brought his care and pride, 

Aweary with the way and sleepy-eyed. 

And he, the man whom she was fain to serve, 
Delayed not shortly his request to make. 

Which was, if aught of her he did deserve, 
To take the maid, and rear her for his sake, 

To guard her youth, and let her breeding be 

In womanly reserve and modesty. 

And that same night into the house he brought 
The costly fruits of all his voyages — 

Kich Indian gems of wandering craftsmen wrouglit, 
Long ropes of pearls from Persian palaces, 

With ingots pure and coins of Venice mould, 

And silver bars and bags of Spanish gold ; 

And costly mercliandise of far-off lands, 

And golden stuffs and shawls of Eastern dye. 

He gave them over to the matron's hands. 
With jewelled gauds, and toys of ivory, 

To be her dower on whom his love was set, — 

Ilis dearest child, fair Madam Margaret. 

Then he entreated, that if he should die, 

She would not cease her guardian mission mild. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 401 

Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh, 

Beside the pillow of the sleeping child, 
Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair. 
Took horse that night, and left her unaware. 

And it was long before he came again — 
So long that Margaret was woman grown ; 

And oft she wished for his return in vain. 
Calling him softly in an undertone ; 

Repeating words that he had said the while. 

And striving to recall his look and smile. 

If she had known — oh, if she could have known — 
The toils, the hardships of those absent years — 

How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan — 
How slavery wrung out subduing tears, 

Not calmly had she passed her hours away, 

Chiding half pettishly the long delay. 

But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, 
While the red flames ascended from the deck; 

Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm. 

Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. 

She did not dream, and there was none to tell. 

That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. 

Sweet Margaret — withdrawn from human view. 
She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, 

The stately trees that in the garden grew, 
And, overtwined, a towering shelter made ; 



402 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, 
In winding walks, and bowering canopies; 

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, 
Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams ; 

And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms, 
Displayed the story of King Phai'aoh's dreams ; 

And, come at noon because tlie well was deep, 

Beautiful Eachel leading down her slieep. 

At last she reached the bloom of womanhood. 
After five summers spent in growing fair ; 

Her face betokened all things dear and good. 
The light of somewhat yet to come was there 

Asleep, and waiting for the opening day. 

When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. 

! we are far too happy while they last ; 

We have our good things first, and they cost naught ; 
Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, 

A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, 
And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, 
Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. 

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by. 
And life is more than life ; love more than love ; 

We have not found the whole — and we must die — 
And still the unclasped glory floats above. 

The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, 

For ever secret in their veil of light. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 403 

Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhyiuea, 

For Margaret is in her garden bower ; 
Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, 

And tell not out too soon the noontide hour : 
For one draws nearer to your ancient town, 
On the green mount down settled like a crown. 

He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, 
He met with one to whom he named the maid, 

Inquiring of her welfare, and her state. 

And of the matron in whose house she stayed. 

" The maiden dwelt there yet," the townsman said ; 

" But, for the ancient lady, — she was dead." 

He further said, she was but little known, 

Although reputed to be very fair, 
And little seen (so much she dwelt alone) 

But with her nurse at stated morning prayer ; 
So seldom passed her sheltering garden wall, 
Or left the gate at quiet evening fall. 

Flow softly, rhymes — his hand is on the door ; 

King out, ye noonday bells, his welcoming — 
" He went out rich, but he returneth poor;" 

And strong — now something bowed with suffering. 
And on his brow are traced long furrowed lines, 
r^arned in the tight with pirate Algerines. 

Her aged nurse comes hobbling at his call ; 
Lifts up her withered hand in dull surprise. 



404 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

And, tottering, leads him through the pillared hall ; 

" What ! come at last to bless my lady's eyes ! 
Dear heart, sweet heart, she's grown a likesome maid — 
Go, seek her where she sitteth in the shade." 

The noonday chime had ceased — she did not know 
Who watched her, while her ringdoves fluttered near : 

While, under the green boughs, in accents low 
She sang unto herself. She did not hear 

His footstep till she turned, then rose to meet 

Her guest with guileless blush and wonder sweet. 

But soon she knew him, came with quickened pace, 
And put her gentle hands about his neck ; 

And leaned her fair cheek to his sun-burned face, 
As long ago upon the vessel's deck : 

As long ago she did in twilight deep. 

When heaving waters lulled her infant sleep. 

So then he kissed her, as men kiss their own, 
And, proudly parting her unbraided hair. 

He said : " I did not think to see thee grown 
So fair a woman," — but a touch of care 

The deep-toned voice through its caressing kept, 

And, hearing it, she turned away and wept. 

Wept, — for an imjjress on the face she viewed — 
The stamp of feelings she remembered not ; 

His voice was calmer now, but more subdued, 
Not like the voice long loved and unforgot ! 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 405 

She felt strange sorrow and delightful pain — 
Grief for the change, joy that he came again. 

pleasant days, that followed his return, 

That made his captive years pass out of mind ; 

If life had yet new pains for him to learn, 

Not in the maid's clear eyes he saw it shrined ; 

And three full weeks he stayed with her, content 

To find her beautiful and innocent. 

It was all one in his contented sight 

As though she were a child, till suddenly, 

Waked of the chimes in the dead time of the niglit, 
He fell to thinking how the urgency 

Of Fate had dealt with him, and could but sigh 

For those best things wherein she passed him by. 

Down the long river of life how, cast adrift, 
She urged him on, still on, to sink or swim ; 

And all at once, as if a veil did lift, 

In the dead time of the night, and bare to him 

The want in his deep soul, he looked, was dumb, 

And knew himself, and knew his time was come. 

In the dead time of the night his soul did sound 

The dark sea of a trouble unforeseen. 
For that one sweet that to his life was bound 

Had turned into a want — a misery keen : 
"Was born, Avas grown, and wounded sorely cried 
All 'twixt the midniylit and the morning tide. 



406 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

He was a brave man, and he took this thing 

And cast it from him with a man's strong hand ; 
And that next morn, with no sweet altering 

Of mien, beside the maid he took his stand, 
And copied his past self till ebbing day- 
Paled its deep western blush, and died away. 

And then he told her that he must depart 
Upon the morrow, with the earliest light ; 

And it displeased and pained her at the heart. 
And she went out to hide her from his sight 

Aneath the cedar trees, where dusk was deep, 

And be apart from him awhile to weep 

And to lament, till, suddenly aware 
Of steps, she started up as fain to flee, 

And met him in the moonlight pacing there, 

Who questioned with her why her tears might be. 

Till she did answer him, all red for shame, 

" Kind sir, I weep — the wanting of a name." 

" A name ! " quoth he, and sighed. " I never knew 
Thy father's name ; but many a stalwart youth 

Would give thee his, dear child, and his love too. 
And count himself a happy man forsooth. 

Is there none here who thy kind thought hath won ? ' 

But she did falter, and made answer, " None." 

Then, as in father-like and kindly mood. 

He said, " Dear daughter, it would please me well 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 407 

To see thee wed ; for know it is not good 

That a fair woman thus alone should dwell." 
She said, " I am content it should be so, 
If when you journey I may with you go." 

This when he heard, he thought, right sick at heart, 
Must I withstand myself, and also thee 1 

Thou, also thou ! must nobly do thy part ; 

That honor leads thee on which holds back me. 

No, tliou sweet woman ; by love's great increase, 

I will reject thee for thy truer peace. 

Then said he, " Lady ! — look upon my face ; 

Consider well this scar upon my brow ; 
I have had all misfortune but disgrace ; 

I do not look for marriage blessings now. 
Be not thy gratitude deceived. I know 
Thou think'.st it is thy duty — I will go ! 

" I read thy meaning, and I go from hence. 

Skilled in the reason ; though my heart be rude, 

I will not wrong thy gentle innoceiice, 
Nor take advantage of thy gratitude. 

But think, while yet the light these eyes shall bless, 

The more for thee — of woman's nobleness." 

Faultless and fair, all in the moony light. 

As one ashamed, she looked upon the ground. 

And her white raiment glistened in his sight. 
AikI, hark ! the vesper chimes began to sound, 



408 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

Then lower yet she drooped her young, pure cheek, 
And still was she ashamed, and could not speak. 

A swarm of bells from that old tower o'erhead. 

They sent their message sifting through the boughs 

Of cedars ; when they ceased his ladj^ said, 
" Pray you forgive me," and her lovely brows 

She lifted, standing in her moonlit place. 

And one short moment looked him in the face. 

Then straight he cried, " sweetheart, think all one 
As no word yet were said between ns twain, 

And know thou that in this I yield to none — 
I love thee, sweetheart, love thee ! " So full fain. 

While she did leave to silence all her part. 

He took the gleaming whiteness to his heart — 

The white-robed maiden with the warm white throat. 
The sweet white brow, and locks of umber flow. 

Whose murmuring voice was soft as rock-dove's note, 
Entreating him, and saying, " Do not go ! " 

" I will not, sweetheart ; nay, not now," quoth he, 

" By faith and troth, I think thou art for me ! " 

And so she won a name that eventide, 

Which he gave gladly, but would ne'er bespeak, 

And she became the rough sea-captain's bride. 
Matching her dimples to his sunburnt cheek ; 

And chasing from his voice the touch of care, 

Tliat made her weep when first she heard it there. 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 409 

Oue year there was, fultilled of happiness , 

But ! it went so fast, too fast away. 
Then came that trouble which full oft doth bless — 

It was the evening of a sultry day, 
There was no wind the thread-hung flowers to stir. 
Or float abroad the filmy gossamer. 

Toward the trees his steps the mariner bent, 
Pacing the grassy walks with restless feet : 

And he recalled, and pondered as he went. 
All her most duteous love and converse sweet. 

Till summer darkness settled deep and dim. 

And dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
Thick leaves shut out the starlight overhead ; 

While he told over, as by strong constraint 
Drawn on, her childish life on shipboard led, 

And beauteous youth, since first low kneeling there. 

With folded hands she lisped her evening prayer. 

Then he remembered how, beneath the shade. 
She wooed him to her with lier lovely words, 

While flowers were closing, leaves in moonlight played, 
And in dark nooks withdrew the silent birds. 

So pondered he that night in twilight dim, 

While dew from bending leaves dropt down on him. 

The flowers sent forth their nightly odors faint — 
When, in the darkness waiting, he saw one 



410 THE TWO MARGARETS. 

To whom he said — " How far«th my sweet saint 1 " 
Who answered — " She hath borne to you a son ; 
Then, turning, left him, — and the father said, 
" God rain down blessings on his welcome head ! " 

But Margaret ! — she never saw the child. 

Nor heard about her bed love's mournful wails ; 

But to the last, with ocean dreams beguiled, 
Murmured of troubled seas and swelling sails — 

Of weary voyages, and rocks unseen. 

And distant hills in sight, all calm and green. . . . 

Woe and alas ! — the times of sorrow come. 
And make us doubt if we were ever glad ! 

So utterly that inner voice is dumb, 

Whose music through our happy days we had ! 

So, at the touch of grief, without our will. 

The sweet voice drops from us, and all is still. 

Woe and alas ! for the sea-captain's wife — 
That Margaret who in the Xebec played — 

She spent upon his knee her baby life ; 

Her slumbering head upon his breast she laitl. 

How shall he learn alone his years to pass 1 

How in the empty house ? — woe and alas ! 

She died, and in the aisle, the minster aisle, 

They made her grave ; and there, with fond inteu 

Her husband raised, his sorrow to beguile, 
A very fair and stately monument : 



MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. 411 

Her tomb (the careless vergers show it yet), 
The mariner's wife, his love, his Margaret. 

A woman's figure, with the eyelids closed, 
The quiet head declined in slumber sweet ; 

Upon an anchor one fair hand reposed, 
And a long ensign folded at her feet. 

And carved upon the bordering of her vest 

The motto of her house — "^e giljctl) rest." 

There is an ancient window richly fraught 

And fretted with all hues most rich, most briglit, 

And in its upper tracery enwrought 

An olive-branch and dove wide-winged and white, 

An emblem meet for her, the tender dove. 

Her heavenly peace, her duteous earthly love. 

Amid heraldic shields and banners set, 

In twisted knots and wildly-tangled bands. 

Crimson and green, and gold and violet. 
Fall softly on the snowy sculptured hands ; 

And, when the sunshine comes, full sweetly rest 

The dove and olive-branch upon her breast. 



A STORY OF DOOM 




A STORY OF DOOM, 



BOOK I. 

ILOIYA said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 
My master, unto whom is my desire, 
Tlie father of my sons ? " He answered her, 
" Mother of many children, I have heard 
The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 
What spake it ? " and with that Niloiya sighed. 

This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 

Was sad in him, the while he sat at home 

And rested after toil. The steady rap 

O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 

Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 

Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went. 

Parted the purple covering seemly hung 

Before it, and let in the crimson light 

Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 

Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark 

Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 



416 /4 STORY OF DOOM. 

All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, 
Upon the gliding river ; where the palm, 
The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
Into the crimson brede that dyed the world : 
And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge — 
The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
For that still river's floating, — building far 
From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells 
Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 
" What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man ? " 
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him. 
Spoke on behalf of God : " Behold," said he, 
" A little handful of unlovely dust 
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
And with His breath awoke a living soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command His work ? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, ' Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
' Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
I love not scorning : I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.' " 

She answered him, " Tell on. 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
'' What though I, — like some goodly lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 



A STORY OF DOOM. 417 

A wider prospect than of yellow-flovvers 

That Mod above her head, — should lay me down. 

And willingly forget this high behest, 

There should be yet no taiTying. Furthermore, 

Though 1 went forth to cry against the doom, 

Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 

It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 

And it shall fall. ! as for me, my life 

Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 

That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 

That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, 

Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 

Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate. 

With thee and thine." 

She answered : " God forbid 1 
For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep 
They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
To Him. and He long-suffering will forgive. 
And chide the waters back to their abyss. 
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid : I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters: look you, sir. 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
Kolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
Uiiconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 

He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, peace, 
J'^or thou wilt enter, when tliat day appears, 
VOL. II. — 27 



418 A STORY OF DOOM. 

The fateful ship." 

" My lord," quoth she, " I will. 
But O, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the time is long 
That thou hast warned the world : thou art but Jiere 
Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad ; 
And wilt thou go again ? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 't is that calleth ; O, be sure. 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss. 
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love. 
And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 

'■ She never loved me since I went with thee 
To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 
It had a snake with a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
' This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost ; 
' Shall there be husbands for her found below, 
When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! O, fool ! 
She must not let her man go forth, to leave 
Her desolate, and reap the whole M'^orld's scorn. 
A harvest for himself.' With that they passed." 

He said, " My crystal drop of perfectness, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 419 

I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 
Thou wilt not heed the counsel ? " "I will not," 
Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. Him 
I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 
Sir, am I fairer than when last we met ? " 

" God add," said he, " unto thy much yet more, 
As I do tliink thou art." " And think you, sir," 
Niloiya sa th, " that I have reached the prime?" 
He answering, " Nay, not yet." " I would 't were so," 
She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
She pineth for the ma4er. Look you, sir. 
They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, 
And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
My supper that I set, and afterward 
Tell nie, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam was, 
Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's feet. 
When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to him." 

" Ay," quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 

When they despised their father : knowest thou that ? " 

" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith. 

" Than any that came after. Furtliermore, 



420 A STORY OF DOOM. 

He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit came over him 
To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

" Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman. 
And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus 
Added, " And therefore was his loss the more ; 
For thougli the creatures he had singled out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery swoid 
And followed after him. — shall bleat of lamb 
Console one for the foregone talk of God ? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog. 
Fawning upon him, make his heart forget 
At such a time, and such a time, to have lieard 
What he shall hear no more ? 

" 0, as for him, 
It was for this that he full oft would stop, 
And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, 
Sad muttering, ' Woman ! we reproach thee not ; 
Though thou didst eat mine immortality ; 
Earth, be not sorry ; I was free to choose. 
Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 421 

Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up 
From his contentment with the lower things ? 
Was she not somewhat that he could not rule 
Beyond the action, that he could not have 
By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
And drew him after her ? So, when deceived 
She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
By loss of upward drawing, when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
' Death is not as the death of lower things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
A change to being as gods,' — he from her hand. 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour. 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared) ; 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he. 
Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, 
Albeit she drew no more." 

" Sir, ye speak well," 
Niloiya saith, " but yet the mother sits 
Higher than Adam. He did understand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
But she had knowledge of the many tribes 
Of ang(ds and their tongues ; their playful ways 



422 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And greetings when they met. Was she not wise ? 
They say she knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as thou." 

" Nay," quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 

Tliat I should answer ? As for me, poor man, 

Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice,' 

At first I cried, ' let me behold the mouth 

Tliat uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills. 

Did hear it hoUower than an echo fallen 

Across some clear abyss ; and I did stop. 

And ask of all my company, ' What clieer ? 

If there be spirits abroad that call to us. 

Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed, 

And one man said, ' It is the small ground-doves 

That peck upon the stony hillocks ' : one, 

' It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 

That cheweth in his dream ' : and one, ' My lord. 

It is the ghost of him that yesternight 

We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife 

To thy great father, when he peaceably 

Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass,' 

And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 

Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 

No sound, nor any speech ; I waited long, 

And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 

And on,' I was as one that in a trance 

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 



A STORY OF DOOM. 423 

Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 
' Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it, 
And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind. 
For I will drown the world.' " 

Niloiya saith, 
" Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon ? " 
The master, he replieth, " Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days went by. 
While I did reason with my heart and hope 
For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
' Let me be certain ' ; and so think again, 
' The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 
And afterward, when reasoned on too much, 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
' O, would I had the same again ' ; and still 
I had it not. 

" Then at the last I cried, 
' If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 
Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
Wlien the doom falls, " Thou God art hard on U'* ; 
We knew not Thou wert angry. O ! we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

" ' But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 



424 ^ STORV OF DOOM. 

That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 

He could not suffer damage ; when the time 

Was past, and that I threatened had not come, 

Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, 

For troubling their content. They would not swear, 

" God, that did send this man, is proved untrue," 

But rather, " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 

God never sent him." Only Thou, gre;it King, 

Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 

The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 

I go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak. 

Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less 

Shall go, because I have believed, what time 

I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 

With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 

And did array me in the sacred gown. 

And take a lamb." 

" Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms. 
We, moving up among the silent hills. 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
' Behold, I know thy good fidelity, 
And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were ray will 
Awhile to leave thee ' ; and the pygmies laughed 



A STORY OF DOOM. 425 

For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 

And put their lieads down, as their manner is, 

To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept ; 

Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 

If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 

God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." 

Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
When I had left thee, He whom 1 had served 
Met with me in the visions of the night. 
To comfort me <br that I had withdrawn 
From thy dear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, 
When I obeyed. He made His matters plain. 
With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves ? " 

She said, " I love not pygmies ; they are naught." 

And he, " Who made them pygmies ?" Then she pushed 

Her veiling hair bai-k from her round, soft eye.s, 

And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did. 

Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 

Beside him on the settle, answering, " Ay." 

And they went on to talk as writ below. 

If any one shall read : 

" Thy mother did. 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well ? " 



426 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the angered conquerors drave them out, 
Behoved them find some other way to rule, — 
They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice ? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind ? 
Did they not spend much gear to gather out 
Such as I tell of, and for matching them 
One with another for a thousand years ? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a race. 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size, 
And well content to serve ? " 

" ' What harm ? ' thou sayest. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm ? ' " 

" Your pardon, sir. 
I do remember that there came one day. 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
When first He invented life (right old they were. 
And plain, and venerable) ; and they said, 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, ' Ye do not well, you wives of men. 
To match your wit against the Maker's will. 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair imasre, which He set at first 



A STORY OF DOOM. 427 

Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat his likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair ? " 

" How know I ? 'T was a slave that told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was born, 
And that was in her youth. What think you, sir ? 
Did not the giants likewise ill ? " 

" To that 
I have no answer ready. If a man. 
When each one is against his fellow, rule, 
Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved. 
Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 
' I will to wife choose me a stately maid. 
And leave a goodly offspring ' ; 'sooth, I think. 
He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 
lie would be strong and great. Thy people's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
To make them weak and small." 

" But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
They fight among themselves for that same cause. 
And tliey are proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong as He." 



428 A STORY OF DOOM. 

The Master said, 
" I will not hear thee talk thereof; my heart 
Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
Niloiya pondered, " Shall my master go ? 
And will my master go ? What 'vaileth it. 
That he doth spend himself, oyer the waste 
A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
That mock his warning ? O, what 'vaileth it. 
That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark. 
Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, 
Laugh ? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled. 
J< not he happy ? Who, of all the earth, 
Obeyed like to me ? Have not I learned 
From his dear mouth to utter seemly words. 
And lay the powers my mother gave me by ? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon ? Nay, 
And I am faithful, when he leaveth me 
Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
Can come without my will. He shall not go. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 429 

Not yet, not yet ! But three days — ouly three — 

Beside me, and a muttering on tlie third, 

' I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, O dull, 

Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 

'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 

Why, O dark mother ! opened ye the way ? " 

Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 

His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe 

Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 

Went down ; forgetful of her mother's craft, 

She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 

" Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee, do not go, 

Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 

" I will not. I iuive cried, and have prevailed : 

To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 

Upon a four days' journey to proceed. 

And follow down the river, till its waves 

Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 

" ' There,' quoth the Unrevealed, ' we shall meet, 

And I willcounsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, wrhen the morn appear.-;, 

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, 

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 

1 thread beside yon river, go thou forth 



430 -^ STORY OF DOOM. 

Atween the mountains to my father's house, 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, ' Great king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 

" Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do this thing. 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 
But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, 
And drive thee on ? " 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 
Fear not. I have prevailed, for 1 besought, 
And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, 
And dwell with thee till after my three sons 
Come from the chase." She said, " I let them forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 
*• Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
'' To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold. 
They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound 
The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash ; 
Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay, 
Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood 



A STORY OF DOOM. 431 

Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
I would my sons were home ; but now sj well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wi'h they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes.upon them. Then, — ah, me ! 
I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft, 
As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves. 
And dark as niglits that have no moon." 

She spake : 
The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks 
As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand, 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought witli lier. 
Until she said, '' What wilt thou ? Nay, 1 know. 
I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
T/iou lovest me well, and not for thine oion will 
Consentest to depart. What more ? Ay, this : 
I do avow that He which calleth thee, 
Hath right to call ; and I do swear, the Voice 
Shall have no let of me, to do Its will" 



432 A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK II. 



NOW ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forlh 
The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Master-builder, down the course 
Of the long river, on his errand sped, 
And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not well 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all smootli 
With footsteps of their fellows, and made straijilit 
From town to town, will scorn at them that woiin 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 
And awful ; drank the light up as it dropt. 
And kept the dusk of ages at their roots) ; 
They do not well who mock at such, and cry, 
" We peaceably, without or fault or fear. 
Proceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 
Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace, 
And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 433 

After all reasoning, choose the worser course, 

And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work 

Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs, 

Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 

Of those who work for a world (no wages paid 

By a Master hid in light), and sent alone 

To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 

Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 

To tell the harmless laborer, " Thou art mad."] 

And as he went, he thought : " They counsel me, 

Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 

' Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 

Why to but one man should a message come ? 

And why, if but to one, to thee ? Art thou 

Above us, greater, wiser ? Had He sent, 

He had willed that we should heed. Then since He 

knoweth 
That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed. 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise. 
If He had sent with thundei-, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of clioice, and, like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.' 
They tell me, ' God is great above thy thought : 
He meddles not : and this small world is ours, 
These many hundred years we govern it ; 
VOL. II.— 28 



434 A STOllY OF DOOM. 

Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' 

Then I, ' It may be He is gone to knead 

More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you 

Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, 

His sickle, or his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall He not do the like ? 

And having set new worlds a-roUing, come 

And say, " I will betake Me to the earth 

That I did make": and having found it vile, 

Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wi,*e. 

And not the Master ? ' Then they answer, ' Fcx 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

Fur pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of His ended work, 

Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch 

One day the rolling wonder fi'oni its ring. 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take u nestling from its downy bed. 

And having satisfied a careless wish. 

Go thrust il back into its place again ? ' 

To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, 

I am assured that I do speak aright : 

' Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 

That the?e your lands should have another Lord 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 



A STORY OF DOOM. 435 

For countenance and favor when He came, 
Knowing yourselves right woi tliy, would ye care, 
With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 
That He would never come, and would your wrath 
Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot 
That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 
" Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come, — 
We think not that He will, — but if He come, 
Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, 
Because we look for prai^e." ' " 

Now, as he went. 
The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint ; 
But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
A slave approached with greeting. " Master, hail ! " 
He answered, " Hail ! what wilt thou? " Then she said, 
" The palace of thy fathers staiideth nigh." 
" I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
" The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent 
To fetch thee " ; then he rose and followed her. 
So first they walked beneath a lofty roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
With gold and purple fruitage, and the white 
Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up. 
Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool 
The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
Had taught them, marshalling and taming them 
To bear the wind in, on their moving winirs. 



436 A STORY OF DOOM. 

So long time as a nimble slave would spend 
In milking of her cow, they walked at ease; 
TiK-n reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
IJroiight whole, and set together, made. Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had finislied it, and up to Eden gate 
Had journeyed for to fetch him. " Here," they said, 
■' Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 
Under the doorplace, and the women sat, 
Each with her finger on her lips ; but he. 
Having been called, went on, until he readied 
The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work 
Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 
To. set the Elder. All with sleekest skins. 
That striped and spotfed creatures of the wood 
Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon 
The Elder was not ; by the steps thereof. 
Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard 
Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
Upon the settle many doves were perched. 
That set the air a going with their wings : 
These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
•' Will He forget me? Would He might forget ! 
Old, old J The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His forgetfulness." With that. 
A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept 



A STOltV OF DOOM. 437 

Anear him, saying, "Taste"; and when his Hps 
Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and lie cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight they fled 
That were about him, and did stand apart 
And stop their ear,-!. For he, from time to time, 
Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, 
And spake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore, he warning them what time the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. 
Lo, lo! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
Ay, then, Hi^ other hand — the cursing hand — 
He took and spread between us and the sun. 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out, 
And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. 
I heard the water hiss, and then methinks 
The crack as of her splitting. Di.l she take 
Their palaces that are my brothers dear. 
And huddle them with all iheir ancientry 
Under into her breast ? If it was black. 
How could this old man see ? There was a noise 
1' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 
I looked, — It was a dream, — let no man say 
It was aught <'l-e. TIkmv, so — the fit goes by. 



438 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide ? — 

Sooner than that, sailh old Methusehih, 

Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 

What ! art Thou envious ? — are the sons of men 

Too wise to please Tliee, and to do Thy will ? 

Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 

Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, 

And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 

lie claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 

Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — ■ 

Tlie secret of Thy youih ! O, envious God ! 

We die. The words of old Methuselah 

And his prophecy are ended." 

Tiieii the wives, 
IJeholding how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying. " Who art thou 
Tliat standest gazing on the Elder ? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thou 
Whose stranger pre-ence troubled him, and brougiit 
Tiie fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
To look upon them, and their majesty 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And being pure among the vile, he cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-wliite purity 
0\er the beauteous thro:ig. " Tliou dost not well," 
They said. He answered : " Blossoms o' the world 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade. 
Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, 
And the white; lily rcare.h u|) her head. 



A STOnV OF DOOM. 439 

And purples cluster, and the ^affron flower 

Clear sa a flame of sacrifice bi'eaks out, 

And every cedar bough, made delicate 

With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — 

Saw 1 (good angels keep you in their care) 

So beautiful a crowd." 

With that, they stamped. 
Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him. 
Vet shaking with the burden, " Who art thou ?" 
He answered, " I, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou love-t it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy hou-e I spake, 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thou spite," 
Qijoth he, " the daughters ? " and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
'' Wicked old man," quoth he, " this wise old man 
I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, 
What shall be done to thee ? for thou didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about. 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings : 
They went to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
Then' was but that. I took it ; I did well." 



440 A STORY OF DOOM. 

With that he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, 

" Long have I liid mine eyes from i?tal\vart men, 

For it is hard to lose the majesty 

And pride and power of manhood : hut to-day, 

Stand forth into the light, tliat I may look 

Upon thy strength, and tiiink, Even thus did I, 

In the glouy of my youth, more like to God 

Than like His soldiers, face the vassal world. 

Then Noah stood forward in his majesty. 

Shouldering the golden hillhook, wherewithal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 

The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 

And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo, 
The Elder cried aloud : " I propliesy. 
Behold, my son is a^i a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they were liiiii 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live. 
And I shall live by him in the other days. 
Behold the prophet of the Most High God : 
Hear him. Behold the hope o' the world, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A sefcd alive, and sow the earth with man. 
O, earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
Shiill hold the remnant of thy mighty lords 



A STORY OF DOOM. 441 

Will this old man be in it ? Sir, and you 

My daughters, hear hira ! Lo, this white old man 

He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 

Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 

Ring with abhorred words ?) The prophecy 

Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, 

They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : " The life 
Of this my lord is low for very age : 
Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
F'ather of Lameeh, dost thou anger Him ? 
Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said : 
" Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones 
Bleaching upon the de.-ert. Did I love 
Tlie lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set 
To draw my car ? and were they not possessed ? 
Yea, all of them were liars. 1 loved them well. 
What did the Enemy, but on a day 
When I behind my talking team went forth, 
They sweetly lying, so that all men praised 
Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, — 
What did the Enemy but send His slaves, 
Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads 
And break them ? Nay, I could not stir abroad 
But havoc came ; they never crept or flew 
Beyond the shelter that I bullded here. 
But straight the crowns I had set upon their Iieads 
Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 
Kept watch to crush tliem. Can a man forgive 



442 ^1 STORY OF DOOM. 

Tliat hath been warred on thus ? 1 will not. Nay, 

I swear it, -^ I, the man Methuselah." 

Tlie Master-shipwright, he replied, '■ 'T is true, 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 

The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues. 

And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir. 

If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried, 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts I loved ; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And I will keep my wrath ibr evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 

Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

' My King, what bones are these ? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 

Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live. 

And let my lizards run up every path 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 

Tiie pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 

I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 

Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 

Submiss upon my threshold, poured away 

Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 

The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 

To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips 

To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and tliem liiat flew 



A STORY OF DOOM. 443 

My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 

Agaiu that multitude ; and here I swear 

That they shall draw my car and me thereon 

Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 

My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 

Shalt yet have honor, O mine Enemy, 

By me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' " 

Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

That is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take thy message ; hear thou Him. 

' Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold. 

The earth that I made green cries out to Me, 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks. 

That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done ? 

I will cry out to the waters. Cover it. 

And hide it from its Father. Lo, Mine eyes 

Turn from it shamed.' " 

With that the old man laiighcd 
Full softly. " Ay," (juotli he, " a goodly world. 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did He give it u> ? Nay, look you, son : 
Five score they were that died in yonder waste ; 
And if He crieth, * Repent, be reconciled,' 
I answer, ' Nay, my lizards'; and again. 
If He will trouble me in this mine age, 



444 A STORY OF DOOM. 

'Why hast Thou slain my hzards?' Now my speech 

Is cut away from all m}'^ other words, 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 

The man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, '• My Master, hear it not ; 

But yet have patience"; and he turned himself, 

And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 

And in the light of evening made his way 

Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 



^1 STORY OF DOOM. 445 



BOOK III. 



ABOVE the head of great Methusehih 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
For when the Elder prophesied, it came 
About, that hidden things were stiown to them, 
And burdens that he spake against his time. 

(But never iieard th^m. such as dwelt with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and perfect in their youth. 
And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were fettered that they could not fiy, 

For a certain disobedience they had wrought 

Against the ruler of their host ; but not 

The le^s they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

0' the Master-builder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to the other said, 

" Bphoves our master know of this ; and us. 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From the.>e our bonds."' 

And thus it came to pass, 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 



446 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat, that gleamed like tire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it diew near, and then it burst 
And went to piece-, and there i'ell therefrom, 
Clo;e at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 

Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
The dragon had been wroth with some that i^erved. 
And chased them from him ; and his oracles, 
That wont to drop from him, were stop{)ed, and men 
Might only pray to iiim through that fell web 
That hung bi-fore him. Then did whisper low 
Some of the little spiiits that bat-like clung 
And clustered lound the opening. " Lo," ihey said, 
While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires. 
Until our lord give leave to draw the web. 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread. 
For he will know and call to them by name, 
And they will change. At present he is sick. 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay. 
And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
Came never near that cave. Wiser than men, 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Those whitfs of flame that wandered up the sky 



A STORY OF DOOM. M] 

And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools 
Into the living rock, for there liad worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
lient with the weight of him that us beguiled ; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat. 
Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
ICarth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared. 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out. 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; inany golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverend quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
The floor was beaten sold ; tha curly lengths 
Of liis last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems. 
Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, 
That changed their lustre when he breathed. 

IU< h-a I 
Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admired wings. 



448 A .STORY OF DOOM. 

That 'n their scaly splfiidor put to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
And shivered ; for the dragon suffered pain : 
He suiFered and he feared. It was his doom, 
Tlie tempter, that he never should depart 
From the bright creature that in Paradise 
He for his evil f)urpose erst possessed, 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
Of death and dying, and the coward heart 
Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end 
Sank him that habited within it to dread 
Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
Rebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort him. 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine. 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, " This mighty one. 
All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, 



.1 :s'jvuy OF doom. 

And his brave warfare with tiie Enemy, 

So much he pitieth us that were denied 

The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 

Sliall he be certified of gratitude, 

And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, '' I thirst. 
Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
From inner chambers, lovely ministrants. 
Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, 
And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeUng hehl it nigh 
In jewelled basins sparkling ; and he lap[>ed, 
And was appeased, and said, " I will not hide 
Longer, my much desired face from men. 
Draw back the web of separation." Then 
With cries of gratulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 
Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Tiiose red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these?" 
Enquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" A< we for thy protection (having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night, 
Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, 



449 



450 A STORY OF DOOM. 

We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies. 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
And, lo, it went to piece?, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Then said the dragon, '• Let my guard, and you, 
Attendant hosts, recede " ; and they went back, 
And formed about the cave a widening ring. 
Then halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
" If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing balls, and forth 
Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
Their lettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." '• Thou art our lord, 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 

They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 

" O fiery flying serpent, after whom 

The nations go, let thy dominion last," 

They said, " forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied, 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear 

And panting, '• We were set to watch the mouth 

Of great Methuselah. Thei-e came to him 

The son of Laraech two days since. My lord. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 451 

Tliey prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of" the flood of water.-:, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and tlie lands 

Lay under water drowned : he saw the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 

Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled 

Into the wilderness to meet His voice 

Tiiat reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught tiiat might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 

To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff. 

And wished for morning. 

" When the dawn was red. 
We sought the man, we marked him ; and he prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the vallej', and he said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare m^, what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall. 
Speak that." They answered, " He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more. 
We are certified by all his scattered words, 
That He will take from men their length of days, 
And cut them off like grass in its first flower: 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard, 
The dragon made to the night his moan. 

'• And more,'' 
They said, " that He above would have men know 
That He doth love them, whoso will repent. 
To that man he is favorable, yea, 



452 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath. But will He love ? 
1 heard it rumored in the heavens of old, 
(And doth He love?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
Against tlie love of God. Dominion fails ; 
I see it float from me, that long have worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answered, " Be not moved, admired chief 
And trusted of mankind " ; and they went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 

But prone 
He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow. 
It fell upon his head and daunted him. 
Until they ended, saying, " Prince, behold, 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 

Thereon 
He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. 
Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Receive your wages." So their fetters fell ; 
And they retiring, lauded him, and cried, 
'• King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 

And he, — being left alone, — he said : " A light ! 
I s<'(! a light, — a star among the trees, — ■ 



A STORY OF DOOM. 453 

An angel." And it drew toward the cave, 

But with its sacred feet touched not tlie grass, 

Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, 

But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked. 
The dragon cried, " Thou newly-fashioned thing. 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
Thou countest all too (rlean to open on ? " 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 
Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids ; 
And not as one that answereth, it let fall 
The music from its mouth, but like to one 
That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 

" A message : ' I have heard thee, while remote 
I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 
A message : ' I ha\ e left thee to thy ways. 
And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 
I have made to serve the ends of My great love. 
IIereaf(er will I chain thee down. To-day 
One thing thou art ibrbidden ; now thou knowest 
The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven. 
When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear 
To let that hidden thing be whispered forth : 
For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, 
That so ungrateful he might prove), would scam, 
And not believe it, adding so fresh weight 



454 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of condemnation to the doomed world. 
Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 
Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, 
A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, 
Unknowable, unbearable to thought. 
But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 
Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 
Are opened, know it, and discern and fear. 
Forbearing speech of it for evermore.' " 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, 
As one released, went up: and it was dawn. 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him. 

From the nether kingdom, certain of his fiiends, — 

Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. 

A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place 

In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, 

And hid them in recesses of the cave, 

Because they could not look upon the sun, 

Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them, — 

All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 

" Up," quoth the dragon ; " it is time to work, 

Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, 

And there came shudderings over land and trees, 

A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 

A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, 



A STORV OF DOOM. 455 

And rolled up blauk before it like a veil, — 
A curtain to conceal its Iiabiter?. 
Then did those spirits move upon the floor, 
Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. 
One had a helm for covering of the scars 
That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 
He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
Were hollower than an echo from the hills : 
lie was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend 
Came after, holding down his dastard head, 
Like one ashamed : now this for craft was great ; 
The dragon honored him. A third sat down 
Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind. 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage. 
And told them of his matters : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal"; adding, " Give your thoughts, 
And let me have your counsel in this need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in Betelgeux: 

Whereas of late the jnanner is to change. 

We know not where 't will end ; and now ray words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 

And strive not, else the world that we have won 

He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. 



456 A STORY OF DOOM. 

*' For while I stood in mine obedience yet, 
Steering of Betelgeux nay sun, behold, 
A moon, tliat evil ones did fill, rolled up 
Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 
And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 
He took and broke it, flung it here and there. 
And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 
And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 
Farther than 't is from hence to this young sun. 
Spirits that passed upon their work that day. 
Cried out, ' How dusty 't is.' Behoves us, then, 
That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
This goodly world and goodly race of man. 
IJot all are doomed ; hereafter it may be 
That we find place on it again. But if, 
Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 
Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come 
And choosing rather to undo His work 
Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 

He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 

In impotent rage, " Depart ! and how depart ! 

Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 

Or I, most miserable, hold my life 

Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 

The bulFetings of yonder shoreless sea ? 

O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 

Of all that breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 457 

" Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admired country we have marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
When yet I can recall what love was like), 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, 
And clogged with strong conditions : ' O, repent, 
Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now. 
And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 

The dragon said, " I tremble, I am sick." 

He said with pain of heart, " How am I fallen ! 

For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 

From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 

From this small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto myself, 

I here being loved and worshipped ? He knoweth 

How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 

To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place ? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Their length of days whereby they perfect it ? 

So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. I will not fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed 



458 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And subtle, and his face lie turned aside : 

'' Whereas," said he, " we strive against both power 

And love, behoves us that we strive aright. 

Now sonae of old my comrades, yesterday 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and I said, ' My master lieth 

Sick yonder, otherwise (for no 'decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Tlierefore, lord, 

'T is certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder? Nothing but this breath. 

Were it not well to make an end, and die, 

And gain admittance to the King of kings ? 

What if thy slaves by thy consent should take 

And bear thee on their wings above the earth, 

And suddenly let fall, — how soon 't were o'er ! 

We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 

But in a little moment we should see, 

Rising majestic from a ruined heap. 

The stately spirit that we served of yore." 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 

Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and sick with shame, 

It bowed itself together, and went back 

With hidden face. "■ This counsel is not good," 

The other twain made answer ; " look, my lord, 

Whereas 't is evil in thine eyes, in ours 

'T is evil al o ; speak, for we perceive 



A STORY OF DOOM. 459 

That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 

Ready to fly to our i-ight greedy ears, 

That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 

(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, 

With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), 

Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the world. 

Behoves that ye prepare lor me a path. 

And that I, putting of my pains aside. 

Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 

O' the giants ; for He loveth them, and looks 

Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 

He willeth that they yield, that He may spare-, 

But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 

I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 

Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, 

And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick. 

Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 

Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. 

I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, 

I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more. 

To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 

The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 

Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass. 

Lest the curse fall, and that she bruise my head. 

Friends, if it be their mind to send for me 

An army, and triumphant draw me on 

In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, 

I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then 

Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore, 



460 A STORY OF DOOM. 

That loves them, O, by much too well to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 
Under the fateful brine. Then afterward. 
While He doth reason A^ainly with them, I 
Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact. 
And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, 
For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 

" Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, "do this thing, 
And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, lest the people add 

Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. 

Why this ? Who careth when about to sla}-, 

And slay indeed, how well tliey have deserved 

Death, wliom he slayeth ? Therefore yet is liid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'T were vain 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed. 

That we expect the harvest ; He would yet 

Be the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said. 

Them that be young and know Him not, and them 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, 

Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 

Joyous behind the curtains, every one 



A STORY OF DOOM. 4G1 

With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 

And children at her knees, — (then what remain !) 

He claimeth and will gather for His own. 

Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, 

Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 

There is no evil like to love. I heard 

Hira whisper it. Have I put on this flesh 

To ruin his two childien beautiful, 

And shall my deed confound me in the end, 

Through awful imitation ? Love of God, 

I cry against thee ; thou art worst of all," 



462 A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK IV. 

NOW while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
The son of Lamecli journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A company ca^e down, and struck the track 
As he did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, 
Sigiiing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 

And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
And fixr;d on him tlieir grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose are ye? " They made answer cold, 
" The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." 
And he, replying, " I am lie." They said, 
" We know it, sir. We hnve remembered you 
Tiirough many seasons. Pray you let us not ; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all tlieir train, 
Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 463 

And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
Tl)at seemed to say, " Father, we own you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — • 
So long, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 

To him that led the last, " There are but two 

Of these my sons ; but where doth Japhet ride ? 

For I would see him." And tlie leader said, 

" Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 

Along the track. Afore t!je noonday ineal 

The young men, even our masteis, bathed ; (there grows 

A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 

Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat. 

Being light weary, lay him down and sleep. 

There, with a company of slaves and some 

Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And ihe man 

The father of ihese three, did let him pass. 

And struggle and give battle to his heart. 

Standing as motionle-s as pillar set 

To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 

But all his strength went from him. and he strove 

Vainly to trample out and trample down 

The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 

Unutterable love flung in his face. 



464 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Then lie broke out in pas.>ionate words, that cried 
Against his lot, " I have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, ray sous ! 
That I have looked to for ray solacing, 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear ! " 
And when from his own li{)S he heard those words, 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came uigh to comfort Iiira. His face 

Was on the ground ; but, having wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and utged his way to find 

The river; and in hollow of his hand 

R used up the water to his brow : " This son, 

This other son of mine," he said, " shall see 

No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 

Where they had spread out webs of broidery work 

Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on. 

And when they made obeisance he declared 

His name, and said, " I will beside my son 

Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 

lie said, " This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, 

liight angry with himself, becau-e the youth. 

Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 

Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth. 

That was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked, 

He ha'f forgot his trouble in his pride. 



A SrORY OF DOOM. 465 

" And is this mine ? " said lie, " my son ! mine own ! 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away, 

That pang shall be past bearing. I must think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from bis soul. How beautiful 

Are children to their fathers ! Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the days 

To come. If I forget the joy of youth. 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own again." 

And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. 

He woke, and opened on his father's face 
The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 
The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed ; 
He was not ready, for he feared to see 
This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke. 
Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 
'' Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 
What is your name ? " and even with his words 
His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 
" Wliy art thou sad ? What have I done to thee ? " 
And Japhet answered, " O, methought I fled 
In the wilderness before a maddened beast. 
And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 
You were my father ; but I lear me, sir, 
VOL. II. — 30 



46G A SrORY OF DOOM. 

My thoughts were vain." With that his father said, 
" Whate'er of blessing Tliou reserv'st for me, 
God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
Bless him with both Thy hands"; and laid his own 
On Japhet's head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 
Made quiet by content, and answered low. 
With faltering laughter, glad and reverent : " Sir, 
You are my father ? " " Ay," quoth he, " I am ! 
Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name, 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

" I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why. 

But I would rather serve him than go free 

With my two brethren." And he said to him, 

" Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my son." 

And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 

To this my answer : let me go with you, 

For, now I think on it, I do not love 

The chase, nor managing tlie steed, nor yet 

The arrows and the bow ; but lather you. 

For all you do and say, and you yourself. 

Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 

I pray you, sir, when you go forth again. 

That I may also go." And he replied, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 467 

" I will tell thy speech unto the Highest ; He 
Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 
Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear 
To this thy father, that the drenched world, 
When risen clean washed from water, shall receive 
From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 
Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhet said, 
" Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight 
I will go a.^k a wife, that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, 
" Dost thou forget ? or dost thou not believe. 
My son ? " He answered, " I did ne'er believe, 
My father, ere to-day ; but now, methinks, 
Whatever thou believest I believe. 
For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 
None of the daughters shall be given to me 
If I be landless." Then his father said, 
" Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son " 
And so he did. " Behold thy heritage ! " 
Quoth the world's prince and master, "far away 
Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 
Lies every season through, and where the dews 



468 A sroiiY OF doom. 

or heaven are wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 

I part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : I make it theirs. 

Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold 

The cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(Fur all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." 



.4 STORY OF DOOM. 4Gi) 



BOOK V. 



AND when two days were over, Japhet said, 
'• Mother, so please you, get a wife for me." . 
The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son ? 
'T is not the manner of our kin to wed 
So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed ? 
Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, 
And made for answer : " This, my father, saith 
The doom is nigh ; now therefore find a maid, 
Or else shall I be wifeless all ray days. 
And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 
Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 
And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 
Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine ? 
Didst thou not diligently search for these 
Among the noblest born of all the earth, 
And bring them up 1 My sisters, dwell they not 
Wiih women that bespake them for their sons? 
Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, 
Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 
As thou art to my father's." When she heard, 
Niloiya sighed, and answered, " It is well." 
And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quolh the great Master : " Wherefore sought ye not, 
Woman, the-e many days, nor tired at all, 



470 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Till ye had found, a maiden for ray son ? 

In tliis ye liave done ill." Niloiya said : 

" Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 

Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so long, 

That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 

Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. 

And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away 

To thy great father, and our lands lie wa;?te, — 

None till them : therefoie think the women scorn 

To give me, — whatsoever gem-! I send, 

And goodly raiment, — (yea, I seek afar. 

And sue with all desire and humbleness 

Through every master's house, but no one gives) — 

A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. 

Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee, 

Brought up among thy children, dutiful 

And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 

Children of them whom he brought captive forth 

From their own heritage." And she replied, 

Right scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed a slave ? " 

Then said the Master : '• He shall wed : look thou 

To that. I say not he shall wed a slave ; 

But by the might of One that made him mine, 

I will not quit thee'for my doomed way 

Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, 

Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine. 

To bring a maiden, and to ?ay, ' Behold 

A wife for Japhet.' " Then she answered, " Sir, 



A SrORY OF DOOM. 471 

It shall be done." 

And forth Niloiya sped. 
She gathered all her jewels, — all she held 
Of costly or of rich, — and went and spake 
With some few slaves that yet abode with her, 
For daily they were fewer ; and went forth. 
With fair and flattering words, among her feres, 
And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 
That made her sick, it was so faint ; and then 
She had fear, and after she had certainty, 
For all did scorn her. " Nay," they cried. '■ O fool ! 
If this be so, and on a watery world 
Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 
Be free or bond ? Tiiere shall be none to rule, 
If she have freedom : if she have it not, 
None shall tliere be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time being done, desponding at lier door. 
And went behind a screen, where should have wrought 
The daughters of the captives ; but there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the floor, 
Where she the river rush full deftly wove. 
And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, 
" Where are thy fellows ? " And the maid replied, 
" Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, 
Be angry ; they are fled since yesternight." 
riien said Niloiya, " Amarant, my slave, 
When have I called thee by thy name before ? " 
She answered, '• Lady, never " ; and she took 



472 A STOJiY OF DOOM. 

And spread lier broidered robe before her face. 

Niloiya spoke thus : " I am come to woe, 

And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept 

Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 

Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 

Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 

Whs seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair 

That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes. 

Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck. 

Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 

No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh. 

And kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak ? 

Her damsel is desirous of her words." 

Then said Niloiya, " I, thy mistress, souglit 

A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 

And yet again she wept with grief of heart, 

Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 

A wife : the Master willeth it : a wife, 

Ah me ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 

His mother and reproach me. I must give — 

None else have I to give — a slave, — even thee." 

This furtlier spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 

Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child. 

When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast ; 

I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 

Thy hands all cunning arts \\v.\t women prize. 

But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 

O, Japhet, well-beloved ! " And she rose up. 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Do.^t thou Iieed ? 



A STORY OF DOOM. 473 

Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, 
" Lady, I do." Then went Nilui} a forth. 

And Amarant murniured in her deep amaze, 
" Shall Japhet's little children kiss my mouth ? 
And will he sometimes take them from my arras, 
And almost care for me for their sweet sake ? 
I have not dared to think I loved him, — now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 
For him ! " And ending thus, the damsel ro.-e, 
F'or Japhet entered. And she bowed herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Ran cold about her heart, for all his face 
Was colored with his passion. 

Japhet spoke : 
He said, " My father's slave " ; and she replied, 
Low drooping her fair head, " My master's son.'* 
And after that a silence fell on them, 
With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 
And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 
And could not speak. O ! cruel seemed his fate, — 
So cruel her that told it, so unkind. 
His breast was full of w-ounded love and wrath 
Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 
Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 
The insult home that she had offered him. 
Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him and he cried in pain. 



474 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" Go, get thee forth " ; but she, all white and still, 
Parted her hps to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate. 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
" Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
' Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave ; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad. 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words.' 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried, 

With heavings of the heart, ""O hateful day ! 

O day that shuts the door upon delight. 

A slave ! to wed a slave ! O loathed wife, 

Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long. 

With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 

Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 

" I will not take her, I will die unwed, 

It is but that" ; lift up his eye-! and saw 

The slave, and she was sitting at his feet ; 

And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 

The disobedience, looked her in the face 

Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 

As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 

And he, his passion being spent, sighed out. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 475 

" Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
That thou dost flout me?" but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
'• No." 

And he wondered, and he looked again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang, 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
" What is it ? I will call her by her name, 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife, 
She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
Then he said " Amarant"; and the damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
Japhet " ; and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
" Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir ? " 
" Ay," quoth he, " well." She answered, " Let the heuit 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose. 
Sits by her in the hou.-e ; but as for me, 
Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. ANo, sir. 
My damsel hath not worked a^ yet the robe 



476 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of her betrothal ' ; now, then, sith he loves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again : it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " O maid, 
S weet are thy words ; but what if I return, 
And all again be as it is to-day ? " 
Then Amarant answered. " Some have died in youth 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
Silent, for any words I might have said ; 
Empty, for any space I might have filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, " 0, tliy speech is good ; 
Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him free 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet. 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear. 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But shortly, " I remember," quoth she, low, 
With raininw down of tears and broken sijjhs, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 477 

" That I am Japhet's slave ; beseech you, sir, 

As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 

Of language to me, be not harder now. 

Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir, 

That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, 

Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 

A slave." He said, '' I thought to do thee good, 

For good hath been thy counsel " ; but she cried, 

" Good master, be } ou therefore pitiful 

To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 

At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 

" None of the daughters are so fair as this, 

Nor stand with such a grace raajestical ; 

She in her locks is like the travelling sun, 

Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. 

And would she die unmatched?" He said to her, 

" What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, 

And dwell alone hereafter ? " " Ay," she said, 

" And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he, 
And held his hand to her, as is the way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
"Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, '■ I rest, sir, on your gracious words " ; 
Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. 

And Japhet, having found his father, said, 

" Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 

Who answered, " Hath thy mother done her part ?" 



478 /I STORY OF DOOM. 

lie said, " Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 
Before her in the hou?e : and also, sir, 
She said to me, ' I have not worked, as yet, 
The garment oi' betrothal.' " And he said, 
" 'T is not the manner of our kin to speak 
Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 
But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, 
And let her see thy face, then all is one 
As ye were wed." He answered, '• Even so. 
It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 
The damsel being mine, I am content 
To let her do according to her will ; 
And when we shall return, .-o surely, sir, 
As I shall find her by my mother's side, 
Then will I take her " ; and he left to speak ; 
His father answering, " Son, thy words are good. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 479 



BOOK VI. 



NIGHT. Now a tent was pitched, and Jiiphet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter lay 
The father of his love. And he was sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse him up. 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
" On, let us journey " ; but it came to pass 
That night, across their path a river ran, 
And they vho served the father and the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A fire, to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that great forest, for their way 
Had led among the trees of God. 

The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked, 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall lay 
This well-beloved head low in the leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed. 
Consider those long spirting flames, that danced. 
When some red log would break and crumble down; 
And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared 



480 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 

But dimness of confused incertitude, 

WouW move a-near all silently, and gaze 

And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 

With eyes ; and still he cared not, and the form 

Would falter, then recede, and melt again 

Into the farther shade. And Japhet said : 

" How long ? The moon hath grown again in heaven, 

After her caving twice, since we did leave 

The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails 

That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled. 

Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 

Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 

To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 

Red brooks adown, that licked the foiest up, 

While in the pale white ashes wading on 

We saw no stars? — what 'vails if afterward, 

Astonished with great silence, we did move 

Over the measureless, unknown desert mead ; 

While all the day, in rents and crevices, 

Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 

Drow>y ; and in the night take fearsome shapes, 

And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired 

Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn i 

Or there would wander up, when we were tired. 

Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose. 

Withstanding us, and staring ; — O ! what 'vaiU 

That in the dread deep forest we have fought 

With following packs of wolves ? These men of might, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 481 

Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. All, me i 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(P^or he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city ? " 

Then he rose, 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upon his father's lace ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
His father lay. Then he came forth again. 
Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire. 
And murmured, '• Now it is the second time : 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely s-aw). 
Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 
I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught. 
But only knew that it was there : the same 
Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 
And Japhet hid his face between his hands 
For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 
Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 
To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, 
For sake of his loved father : then he lift 
His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 
The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 
Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, 
By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, 
vor,. II. — 31 



482 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Crept red amongst the log-, and all the world 
And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 
Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 
The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw. 
Winding athwart them, bathed in bli'sful peace, 
And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 
And out-posts of the giants ; and there ran 
On the other side the river, as it were. 
White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair. 
And towers below a line of inland cliff: 
These were their fastnesses, and here their home:. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night. 

There had been woe ; in every hollow place. 

And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow. 

Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged 

That night within the gates, and had decreed, 

" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 

The women, the abhorred of my soul." 

Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom. 

Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 

Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink 

The water of the river ; or, new born, 

The quivering butterflies in companies. 

That slowly crept adovvn the sandy marge, 

Like living crocus beds, and also drank. 

And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hanrls 



A STORY OF DOOM. 483 

Tliey dipped between the lilies, or with robes 
Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, 
Weeping ; or comforting their little ones, 
And lulling them with sorrowful long liymns 
Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
Mournfully, and he said, ' The men of might 
Are willing ; let thy mastei', youth, appear." 
And Japhet said, " So be it " ; and he thougiit, 
" Now will I trust in God " ; and he went in 
And stood before his father, and he said, 
" My father " ; but the Master answered not. 
But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, 
Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 
As ready for the journey, and his feet 
AVere sandalled, and his staff' was at his side ; 
And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 
And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 
His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God ! " 
But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When he did listen. Therefore he went on : 
"■ Behold, 1 have a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, 
For God appointed me my task, to preach 
Before the mighty.' I must do my part 
(O ! let it not displease thee), for he said 



484 A STORY OF DOOM. 

But yesternight, ' Wlien they shall send for rae, 
Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
Precious ; for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence : 
Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 

And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 

Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 

Each on his carven throne, o'er-canopied 

With work of women. And the dragon lay 

In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 

He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 

And they being proud, might nothing master them, 

But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 

And when the younger taunted him, submiss 

He testilied great humbleness, and cried, 

" A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O nay, 

I will not think it of Him, that He meant 

To threaten these. O, when I look on them. 

How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth, 
The youngest ; of his bretiiren, named •' the Rock. ' 
" Speak out," quoth he, " thou toothless slavering thing, 
Wliat is it ? thiiikest thou tliat such as we 
Should be afraid ? What is this goodly doom ? " 
And Satan lauglied upon him. " Lo," said he, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 485 

" Thou art not fully grown, and every one 

I look on, standeth higher by the head, 

Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men ; 

Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, 

'lliou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 

'• Speak," cried they ; and with mild persuasive eyes, 

And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones. 
It hath been known to you these many days 
How that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious : if I lie. 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned your weal, 
Though I must therefore suffer. 

" Now to-day 
One cometli, yea, an harmless man. a fool, 
Who boasts he hath a message from our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate, 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, 1 am here." 

Then spoke the Leader, "How now, snake? Tliy wordij 
Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us ? 
Thou coward ! none of us will s(;e thee harmed. 



48G A STORY OF DOOM. 

] eay thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
Myseif nave hewn down companies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, 
Come witl) a force to bid us spare one fool ? " 

And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be not wroth ; 

Yet true ii js, and yet not all the truth. 

Your servant would have told the rest, if now 

(For fulness of your life being fretted sore 

At mine iniirmities, which God in vain 

I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 

My speech to stop." And he they called " the Oak " 

Made answer, " 'T is a good snake ; let him be. 

Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast? 

Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 

Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 

Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy iieart. 

What ! hast thou lied to this great company ? 

It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 

Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." 

'• Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, " thus it was," 

And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 

" O, can it be, compassionate as brave. 

And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, 

And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 

And ruling nobly, — that He, not content 

Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend 



A sTonr OF DOOM. 487 

O.' breaji them in, like slaves to cry to Him, 
' What is Thy will with us, O Master dear ? ' 
Or else to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with yon, 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
' Believe not aught against thy God ; believe. 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong. 
That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind ? ' 
Tiierefore, O majesties, it is my mind 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 
The message is not like what I have learned 
By reason and experience, of the God. 
Therefore no message 't is. The man is mad." 
Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. " Hold, 

snake ; 
If God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
We rather would He were a partial God, 
And being strong, He sided with the strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other side, 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned : 
" My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
And slew him, that should make an empty world. 
But not a better nation." 



488 A STORY OF DOOM. 

This replied, 
" Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; may be, He designs, 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes. 
Since He will have your fear, that love alone 
Sufficeth not, and I admire, and say, 
' Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God 
Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
" We are not strong that any we will fear. 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 489 



BOOK VII. 



AND while he spoke there was a noise without ; 
The curtains of the door were flung asidc>. 
And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness. 
Leaned it beside. He marked the miglity one-, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon lauglied. 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, 
Hissing, " Thou brown-haired youth, con)e up to me 
I fain would have thee for my shrine afar. 
To serve ainong an host as beautiful 
As thou : draw neai'." It liissed, and Japhet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" Father ! help, the serpent draweth me !" 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
A netted bird. But still his father lay 
Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
But half in fear and half for wonderment 
Beheld. And yet again the drngon laughed, 
And leered at him and liissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, 



490 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And moved to go to him, till piercingly 

Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 

The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyea 

As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released. 

He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it, 

And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor. 

And Japhet's voice crying out, " I loathe thee, snake ! 

I hate thee ! O, I hate thee ! " came again. 

The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 

And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 

Upon the miglity, said, " One called on God : 

Where is my God ? If God have need of me, 

Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, 

Or dying I shall die." 

It came to pass. 
While he was speaking, tiiat the curtains swayed ; 
A rushing wind did move throughout the place, 
And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
A somewhat, as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With that. 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him. He had called his ministrants. 
And bid them veil him thus, that none might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 491 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause. 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves, 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail ! " 

And he made answer, " Hail ! I am a man 

That is a shipwright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit. 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

' Prepare your houses, or 1 come,' saitli He, 

' A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your h(^arfs, 

' What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that, 

To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 

But saved alive, and living throw to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 

To this abhorrefl snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make tliem work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends 

May answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out.) 

For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, 



492 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 
The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 
Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 
To tell of more, the time would be so long 
To do it, and your time, O mighty ones, 
Is short), — but rather say, ' We sinners know 
"Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 
While yet there may be respite, and repent. 

" ' Or else,' saith He that formed you, ' I swear, 

By all the silence of the times to come. 

By the solemnities of death, — yea, more. 

By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned, 

That I w^ill come. I will command the clouds. 

And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 

With all my storms the ocean for your sake. 

And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

'' ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

Should I forbear, 
That have been patient ? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith. He, ' the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I 
Will hear them. I by death will scatter you ; 
Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast. 
And gather them to peace. 

" ' But yet,' saith He, 
' Repent, and turi) you. Wherefore will ye die? ' 



A STORY OF DOOM. 493 

" Turn then, O turn, while yet the enemy 
Untamed of man fatefully moans afar ; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
You mighty at youi' doors. Will ye be wroth ? 
Will ye forbid it ? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young. 
And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye opprc-s, — 
There did ye make you vile) ; but ye shall lie 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 

"'Yet,' saith thy God, 
' Son,' ay, to each of you He saith, ' O son, 
Made in My image, beautiful and strong. 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well. 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
O son ! and no more dare the wrath of \o\e. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Why wilt thou die? ' Here will I make an end." 

Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they had iiann d, — 
Some at their fellows, for tiie younger sort, — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of lilood. 
And given to learning and the arts of peace 



494 A STORY OF DOOM. 

(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
Tiiey said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 
May claim good audience if he fill our cars 
With what is strange : and we would hear again." 

The Leader said, " An audience hath been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words ;ire naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat. 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday " ; then they grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his dai-. 

Then one to Japhet said, 
One called " the Cedar-Tree," " Djst thou, too, think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned?" 
And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried. 
To one surnamed "the Pine," — '-Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in j'onder crag. 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he may answer, ' Matters not. 
For my part I forget them.' " 

Japhet said, 
" They might do worse than that, they might deny 



A STORY OF DOOM. 495 

That such as you have ever been." With that 
They answered, " No, thou do-t not think it, no ! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
" And wherefore ? if ye say of what is sworn, 
' He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it, 
To say, ' He did not do it' ?" They replied, 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 
And likewise tell your sons, '"The Cedar Tree" 
Was a good giant, for he struck me not. 
Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
I taunted him.' " 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke : 
" How wilt thou certify to us thy truth ?' 
And hi! related to them all his ways 
From the beginning: of the Voice that called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 

Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 

No, tJiou mad preacher, no. If He. Eterne, 

Be ordering of Hi> far infinitudes. 

And darkness clouil a world, it is but chance, 

As if the shadow of Hi^ hand had fallen 

On one that He fororot, and troubled it." 



49G .1 STORY OF DOOM. 

Then said the Master, " Yet, — who told thee so?' 

And from his dais the feigning serpent hissed : 
" Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, 
And told him so. The pious will have dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not us 
To think of Him as being acquaint with change : 
It were beneath Him, Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They muit rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself between, — ■ 
A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
(For He is hard) He sliovveth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
To be interpretei-, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety. 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 

And the Master said, 
" Thou liest. Tliou wouldst lie away the world, 
If He, whom thou hast dared speak against. 
Would suffer it." " I may not chide with thee," 
It answered, " Novr ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Tlien quoth (he Leader of the young men : " Sir, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 497 

We scorn you not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fasiiion of the world 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now ? " 

He then replied : 
" What is thy thought ? There is no miracle ? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, man, 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou sayesi, 
' I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
Red clay is all ray make, myself, my whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
0' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Shall not for that forbear to take thy bieath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, 
Being in the world and of the world, thyself 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. 
Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — 
Thou art thy Father's miracle. 

Behold 
He buildeth up the stars in comiJanies ; 
VOL '.J —32 



498 A STORY OF DOOM. 

He made for them a law. To man He said, 

' Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains ? 

O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 

Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways ; 

But first thou mu-t be loyal, — love, O man. 

Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee, 

For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 

A witness for thy Father in thy soul, 

Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 

' The rivers in their course forever run. 

And turn not from it. He is like to them 

Who made them.' Think the ratlier, ' With my foot 

I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, 

To water grasses that were fading. What ! 

Is God my Father as the river wave. 

That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing 

He made, and not like me, a living son. 

That changed the watercourse to suit his will ? ' 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, 

' There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 

Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought. 

Or reigned, or rested. 

Hold then there, content ; 
Learn that to love is the one way to know, 



A STOJiV OF DOOM. 499 

Or God or man : it is not love received 
That inaketh man to know the inner life 
Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 
Siiall do it. Love thy Father, and no more 
His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret 
At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 
No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 
Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 
Than to have acted ; yea, or after rest 
And patience, to have risen and been wroth, 
Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, 
And troubled nations." 

Then the dragon sighed. 
" Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy .senses wander. Yea, good sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will al.-o go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that. 
We know, i> pK^M-iiig to the mighty God: 
But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties I wlien He siiall counsel you 
HiMSKLF, then biiiid. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — faf, well liking, white? 
An hundred ? why, a thousand were not much 
To such as you." Tl)en Noah lift up his arms 
To heaven, and cried, " Tliou aged shape of sin. 
The Lord rebuke thee." 



500 A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK VIII. 

THEN" one ran, crying, while Niloiya Avroiight, 
" The Master coraeth ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shera 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, 
And said, " Is it well, my brother ? " He replied, 
" Well ! and, I pray you, is it well at home ? " 

But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well. 
If he that should command it bides afar ? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegranates slired 
To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke. 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
" I will betroth her to me straight " ; and went 
(Yet labored he whh sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf 



A STORY OF DOOM. 501 

For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 

" Where is our father ? doth he preach to-day ? " 

And Japhet answered, " Yea. He !=aid to me, 

' Go forward ; I will follow when the folk 

By yonder mountain-liold I shall have warned.' " 

And Shem replied, " How thinkest thou ? — thine ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, " I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 

How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 

How one must stride that will ascend the steps 

That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drave. 

With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 

And how the talking dragon lied and fawned. 

They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, 

And scorning him : and of their peaked hoods, 

And garments wrought upon, each with th<j talc 

Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 

(Yea, and about their skirts were etligies 

Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whose swords 

Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, 

To signify much blood) : and of their pride 

He told, but of the vision in the tent 

He told him not. 

And when they reaclKnl the house, 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
" All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have; found 



502 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
And she did talk with him right motherly : 
'' It hath been fully told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
Did she not all declare to me ? " 

He said, 
" Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
" Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
' I will not take hei- ! ' Now it was not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
"• I know it." Quoth the mother, " It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
" Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ? " He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 
From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 
My father ! " Then Niloiya turned herself. 
And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quoth sh 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth ; 
But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the robe 
Of feasting, and she pouied upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to him. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 503 

" My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 

Be sad because of scorning ? Eat this day ; 

For as an angel in their eyes thou art 

Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace ! 

Thy words are wide." 

And when Niloiya heard, 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wine ? Behold, I thought to wed my son. 
Even this Japhet ; but is this a time. 
When sad is he to whom is my desire. 
And ly.ing under sorrow as from God ? " 

He answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, '• The maid 
That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
But I have found another ; yea, good sooth. 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
" Comfort thy heart, and eat : moreover, know 
How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
(For I, according to thy will, have paid 
All that was left us to them for their wage,) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, 
Honey and oil, — much victual; yea, and fruits. 
Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold 



604 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Our fastness and abode." He answered, " Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built ? " She said, " Good sir, 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, ' If God shall send a flood. 
There will I dwell ' ; I pray you therefore wait 
At least till He doth send it." 

And he turned, 
And answered nothing. Now the sua wa-s low 
While yet she spake; and Japhet came to iheni 
In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 
The garment of betrothal. And with that 
A noise, and then brake in a woman slave 
And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, 
Did say full meekly, " If I do offend, 
Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
For now this woman will not be denied 
Herself to tell her errand." 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, " If I do offend. 
Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo ! ' my mistress saith, 
' Put off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold away, 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
Woven of many colors. We have heard 
Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us, that were his friends ; 



A STORl' OF DOOM. 505 

Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
Than He did tlireaten, if my damsel's foot 
Ever draw ui|^h tliy door.' " 

And when she heard, 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Japhet came unto the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Depart ; 
Say to thy mistress, ' It is well.' " With that 
She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
Lift up her hand and said, " If I offend. 
It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
Naught of this matter." And he held to her 
His hand and touched her, and said, " Amarant ! " 
And when she looked upon him, she did take 
And spi'ead before her face her radiant locks. 
Trembling. And Japhet said, " Lift up thy face, 

fairest of the daughters, thy fair face ; 

For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with the robe 
Of thy betrothal ! " — and he took her locks 
In his two hands to part them from her brow. 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and he said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
The robe upon her, having said, " Behold, 

1 have repented me ; and oft by night. 

In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, 
I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. 



506 -1 '"^'WRV OF DOOM. 

" For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he took 
The golden cup of wine to drink with her, 
And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older days 
Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set 
Upon thy head ! ' do L Eat of my bread. 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves. 
And mother of my children." 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
I pray you, kiss her." And the' Master did : 
He said, " Be mother of a multitude, 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found, as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
" Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 



A STORY OF DOOM. 507 

And broujjht me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
Have care on her, till I shall come again 
And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
He and his father to the marriajj-e feast. 



508 A STORY OF DOOM. 



^T^HE prayer of :^ 
X And listened ; 



BOOK IX. 

Noah. The man went forth by night 
and the earth was dark and still, 
And he was driven of his great distress 
Into the forest ; but the birds of night 
Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face, 
And cried, " God, God ! Tliy billows and Thy waves 
Have swallowed up my soul. 

" Where is my God ? 
For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee ; 
For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, — 
Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

" God ! 
Where is ray God ? Tlie long wave doth not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, 
And like a chief in battle fall, — not yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues, 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful wings 
To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 509 

All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high — 

" Not yet. 
0, let it not be yet. Where is ray God ? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
Alone ? I am riot saved, for I have loved 
My country and ray kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
Over their lands be lord when they are gone ? 
I would not : spare them. Mighty. Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not . . , ." 

Another praying un remote, a Voice 
Calm as the soHtude between wide stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 

Lost from its place and narae, but won for Thee ? 

Where is ray multitude, my raultitude. 

That I shall gather? " And white smoke went up 

From incense that was burning, but there gleamed 

No light of fire, save dimly to reveal 

The wliiteness rising, as the prayer of him 

That mourned. " My God, appear for rae, appear ; 

Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 

The bitterness of death I have not feai'ed. 

To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. 

Tlien shall the captive from liis bonds go free. 

Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 

From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 

That said of joy, ' Wliat is it ? ' and of songs, 



510 A STORY OF DOOM. 

' We have not heard tliem ' — shall be glad and sing ; 
Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 
And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, 
And seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, " Hear, God, 
Hear Him : hear this one ; through tlie gates of death. 
If life be all past praying for, O give 
To Thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
Give them to Him. 

" But yet," said he, " O yet. 
If there be respite for the terrible. 

The proud, jea, such as scorn Tliee, — and if not .... 
Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 

He cried, 
" Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed. 
While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
For doing of that work again. O, lost. 
Lost world!" And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. 



And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietness tlie sun came up. 
And there were marks acro-s it, as it were 



A STORY OF DOOM. 511 

The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, 
The earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 

Behind his mantle, saying, " I have made 

Great preparation, and it may be yet, 

Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 

This day to meet me, there may enter in 

Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 

My bidding." And because the fog was thick, 

He said, " Forbid it. Heaven, if such there be. 

That they should miss the way.'' And even then 

There was a noise of weeping and lament ; 

The words of them that were affrighted, yea. 

And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 

The mother and her children, and they cried, 

'• Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done ? " 

And when he lifted up his face, he saw 

Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 

Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, 

And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 

And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 

White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneei. 
And wriuff their hands. 



512 A STORY OF DOOM. 

One cried, " O, speak to us 
We are afFi-ighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 
Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk. 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned, " Alas ! O father, for ray dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
One said, ' And wherefore should this woman live, 
When only for her children, and for her. 
Is woe and degradation ? ' Then he laughed, 
The other crying, ' Let alone, O prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much seed. 
Because I hate her.' " 

Bi)t he said, " Rise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I liave learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream, myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of you will hear my words, 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day. 
How fares it ? " 

And the fateful darkness grew. 
But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling ; tlien they hid 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



513 



Their faces every one, till he returned, 

And spake not. *' Nay," they cried, " what hast thou 

seen ? 
O, is it come to this ? " He answered them, 
" The door is shut." 



N0TE8 TO "A Stort of Doom. 



Page 358. 

The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced 
Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah, — Sheni, Ham, and Japhet, — I have called 
Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have sup- 
posed that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," 
he may have received the epithet because by that time there were 
younger Japhets. 

Page 425. 

The quivering butterflies in companies. 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
Like living crocux beds. 

This beautiful comparison is taken from " The Naturalist on the 
River Amazons." -'Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
gregated on tiie moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
variegated with beds of crocuses.'' 



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